There she sways, delicate amidst the slightest touch of breeze;
as if comforting a broken winged swallow,
her language is shallow, yet, each petal sings it’s own song,
symphony of delicate and precarious language.
Sitting in fields of cacophony, daisies follow the seeker,
giving away anger and slight to it’s own undoing, after picked,
it is ready, sacrificial, yet, kind and delighted in the breeze
and the tarnished hands of seekers; what an amazement,
brazen, sometimes hollow hearts hold gentle dandelions close by,
by the river they cry “hear me.”
Centuries in the making, dainty and flushed,
remembering learned lessons it asks for nourishment through rain,
you place your hands in soil~tossing aside supremacy and guilt,
place your hands in with grasses ~ at one with the harmless.
When you were hurt, perhaps you drove to the wilderness,
spoke with the trees; imagined peace in nature, found peace
in nurture, losing abilities to gamble and finding strength,
the kind you lose when life tumbles, and you tumble with it.
Lined shallows of the small white and yellows;
daisies are but merely metaphors; melodies of simplicity,
redundancy of harm ~
why are we not there, yet?
Anna Rozwadowska 2019