The White Daisy
Once I plucked a pure, white daisy,
And pulled its petals one by one.
“He loves me,” I spoke. “He loves me not.”
I pulled each petal, and they dropped to the ground.
I pulled them until the very last one was,
“He loves me not.” And it dropped, too.
Soon the flower with its petals plucked died.
It became dust and one with the earth again.
I remembered, “He loves me not,” with sadness.
But the daisy was gone now, and so was the last petal.
The last petal’s divination died, too,
When I realized that it was a Pagan trick.
The daisy is meant for friendship, not for a curse.
But the innocent flower, the daisy, died.
It died to prove the omen false. But it lives.
The daisy lives and soaks up the sun.
It lives forever with petals intact;
And forever it speaks, “He loves you.”
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