Between the gorgeous daisies i do walk
Fully aware not to step over them,
To the petals of pure white I do talk
When I approach a flower by the stem.
I recall to my colour sensing mind
This painted moving field few months ago,
Back then if I searched, I could never find
A green, a red, a white, or a yellow.
They say that in the winter's gloomy womb
Lives the coming spring , unseen and timid,
And what seems to be a blackish brown tomb
Holds beneath the lively hues so vivid.
At a tomb of a beloved, I stand,
I hold a daisy, and my heart in hand.
