Time for Daisies

Time for Daisies

“Bring me flowers
while I live”,
she said,
so long ago.
We brought
them to her
funeral,
for us
as well as her.

Springtime came
a-walking,
climbing
on a wall.
Bounding
little
children,
pray they
will not fall.
All of us
are children,
learning
each short day.

Black and white
reveals a lot.
Colours can
conceal.
Sorrows,
we can learn
from too,
before our
feelings heal.

White flowers
in the springtime,
on the
flower stand,
waiting for
a buyer
to take them
all in hand.
Disaster in
the springtime,
when promises
are made.
There are
some things
I can not say.
Sweet words
that must
be stayed.

In all my days,
it’s never been
as deadly
as today.
Self-isolation
came too late,
and sickness
came along,
bounding like
a skipping child,
who’s climbed
forbidden walls.
So now we’re
trapped behind
our door,
protecting
one and all.

Springtime came
a-walking,
climbing
on a wall.
Bounding little
children,
pray we will
not fall.
All of us
are children,
learning each
short day.
Black and white
reveals a lot.
Feelings are
concealed.
Sorrows,
we may suffer
too,
before our
feelings heal.

Tiny

Tiny

Flowers so small,
they may
remain unseen.

They stand
oblivious
before me,
unaware I
may have
crushed them
underneath
my large and
clumsy feet.

We miss
so much
under the
pressure
of our
frantic lives.
We walk
our walks,
unseeing,
past so much.
So much beauty,
so little time
to see it.

A time may come
when I will seek
her friendship
if it’s there
for me.
But now we walk
unseeing past,
mired in
gruesome
realities
we dare not
truly face.

Tomato

All these things
we never see,
all joy and wonders.
Close up,
things become,
in some ways,
clearer.
Yet, we see
even less.

All in a family,
there can be
so many variations,
potatoes, tomatoes,
and poisonous cousins.
Nightshades can be deadly.

Potatoes and tomatoes
are such favourites,
the poison
is bred out.
So nothing’s left
to fear.
And life continues,
to ends
we cannot know.

Pink Ragged Chaos

It seems chaotic,
all these ragged petals.
Pink peonies
add some brightness
to a garden,
to a summer day.

Chaos is a universe
we never see
because we
cannot understand.

Feedback sometimes
reveals chaos
may have patterns.

Summer Tulip

Not long ago,
it was so beautiful,
attracting bees
and delighted
glances.
Sometimes even
picked
for brilliant bouquets.

Red and yellow,
as I almost remember.
Or maybe
it was pink,
double blossoms,
with ragged edges.

Another day,
or just a few,
and suddenly,
petals are fallen.
A sign
of middle age
or maybe
senescence.
Something interesting?

I never was
that pretty,
I declare.
But time rolls on
for all of us.
No one is spared.
My own petals
have long since
fallen,
on the ground.

What character
is left?
And have I learned
a thing?
Something to share?
Anything that
resembles wisdom?
Or, at least,
a not-too-boring
story?

What is a Garden

Colours bright
or colours dim,
we notice
whats in focus,
and as shadows
trim our image,
add water
to the dust,
things grow.

What is a weed,
but an unwanted
volunteer.
A garden’s
not the same.
You walk
on water?
That’s a
different game.

A volunteer
can be a
great thing too.
Flowers can grow
from unexpected seed,
and welcome,
none of them’s
a weed.

A little beauty
sneaks into
the picture.
A little colour,
bright and amazing,
a garden like
her garden,
makes your
heart sing.

First Wild Roses

Just before summer,
wild roses
surprise us,
first the leaves,
then the rosebuds.
The buds open.

Something about them,
how
they smell,
how they
announce
summer,
the way they
might explain,
if we knew
how to listen,
who we are.

Beginnings

Each and every spring
they’ve sprouted,
fresh leaves
to feed blossoms
on the wild rose.

We like to struggle
with the question,
“which came first”,
but do we want to know?

New leaves
in springtime,
as they spread
green wings
that do not fly away,
until the fall.

We do not worship nature,
but enjoy.
It seems that
wild things and places
were made
for us to love.

Between the thorns,
we cannot see
the rose.

It’s time has
not yet come.
If we are patient,
we may see it’s glory.

It’s always
come before.
Our patience
was rewarded.

A little hope,
a little faith,
and roses soon
(enough)
should bloom again.

Something Beautiful

Something beautiful,
the way she holds her head,
smiling at me,
but there is
something impermanent
about it,
special but yet
we must be reminded
of the inevitable
we hear
that comes
for each of us,
that comes for all.

But now she bows,
dedicated, fading.
Her petals are nearly
ready to fall.
I see some fuzzy bits,
turning to
wind-catching sails,
nature’s little parachutes.
Still there is
something left
and she is
still beautiful,
in her way.