Daisy Days


Be it in the cemeteries of yellow fever
victims or the shallow end of a Pearl
foam sea, where the litter floats
like mother nature’s tears, I’ll find
Daisy there in a hand-me-down
white linen gown.

The Good-Will windows
are filled with familiar, plastic smiles
that she once waved to, once remembered fondly.
The Indian mounds still hold her footprints
in the sandbanks, but they will slowly wash
away just like the natives have,
just as the world will forget.

She turns her tiny face at every corner
peeping over my clouded mind,
laughing at my surprise in finding
her there to cheer my concentration.

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