| Daisies Are Always Pure (For Catherine) I have a friend who lives with daisies, stands under daisies that often turn upside down. Sky drips between petals upon the lady, my friend under the daisy. Poets can live under a daisy, grow with daisies or into a daisy. Petals bend, shift to catch what can be caught, speak what can be spoken. With velvet strength she plucks petals: "He loves me…" This petal a holiness of words. She visits a buckwheat hill encircled by the greeness of pine, rising like a shrine to daisies, that harbors daisy beds. Only unicorns (who rarely visit) can pierce a daisy's heart, to coat a horn with pollen and grow daisies other places, other times.
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