The Fury Of Flowers And Worms

 Let the flowers make a journey 
on Monday so that I can see 
ten daisies in a blue vase 
with perhaps one red ant 
crawling to the gold center.
 
A bit of the field on my table, 
close to the worms 
who struggle blinding, 
moving deep into their slime, 
moving deep into God's abdomen, 
moving like oil through water, 
sliding through the good brown.
 

The daisies grow wild 
like popcorn.
 
They are God's promise to the field.
 
How happy I am, daisies, to love you.
 
How happy you are to be loved 
and found magical, like a secret 
from the sluggish field.
 
If all the world picked daisies 
wars would end, the common cold would stop, 
unemployment would end, the monetary market 
would hold steady and no money would float.
 

Listen world.
 
if you'd just take the time to pick 
the white flowers, the penny heart, 
all would be well.
 
They are so unexpected.
 
They are as good as salt.
 
If someone had brought them 
to van Gogh's room daily 
his ear would have stayed on.
 
I would like to think that no one would die anymore 
if we all believed in daisies 
but the worms know better, don't they? 
They slide into the ear of a corpse 
and listen to his great sigh.

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