I love picking daisies.

One day I picked a daisy out of a field that was not my own.
The daisy died when I picked it.
I held the daisy anyway, it looked so forlorn and strangely beautiful.
I held the daisy, and it gave me a disease.
I held the daisy with my sore-covered hands.
My fingers hurt from stroking the thorns.
This daisy had thorns.
I loved to touch them.
I held the dead daisy for quite a while.
I held the dead daisy until it crumbled, quite predictably.
I put the dead, crumbled daisy in a special place, and left it.

I love picking daisies.

One day I saw a daisy another girl had picked.
The daisy was lying on the ground.
The girl had dropped the daisy, and the wind had picked it up.
The daisy had flown all the way from the girl's field to mine.
I picked it up.
The daisy loved to be held.
The daisy missed its girl.
I threw that daisy away.

I love picking daisies.
One day I saw a daisy that was stuck to the ground.
I picked and picked, and the daisy would not come out.
I sat next to the daisy many days and nights.
Soon the daisy was all I thought about.
I loved that daisy.
I sat next to it, caressing and holding and pulling every once in a
while.
The daisy never would come out.
But I loved to sit next to it.

I love picking daisies.

One day I almost gave up watching my daisy.
I thought there must be daisies somewhere as beautiful as this.
I thought I wish I believed that there were other daisies as beautiful
as this.
My eyes hurt from never blinking.
My hands hurt from caressing and not pulling.
My ears hurt from listening to the wind call.
There was one other daisy.

I love picking daisies.


I decided it was better to pick an ugly daisy than to watch a
beautiful one.
I saw an average daisy.
I picked it.
I watched my other daisy while I picked the average-looking daisy.
I held the new daisy.
It got prettier, because it was in my hand.
My fingers made the average daisy pretty.
I still look at my beautiful daisy.

I love picking daisies.

One day someone else came to my field of daisies.
I guess the field's not only mine.
The boy picked my daisy.
The daisy came right out of the ground so easily.
Guess it wasn't mine either.
The one I held got ugly as I almost dropped it.
My beautiful lovely daisy was waiting for a boy.
Can I be a boy?
Guess I'll pick up my daisy.
The boy left, my beautiful daisy with him.
Guess I'll hold my daisy.

I love picking daisies.

copyright 1997 Rachael Lee