After the rain, I see the daisies,
in their clean, white dresses,
fresh and perfect.
Washed and bright,
their faces lifted to the skies,
and open to the sun.
Is it their youth that makes them so fearless,
despite their diminutive size?
A gullibility of spirit or
lack of worldly knowledge?
Or do their passing, unjustified lives
lead them to embrace the now?
No, their beauty springs from a truth far older,
for they are neither flashy nor flamboyant.
A daisy knows no duplicity,
has no jealousies, no pride.
Its wisdom lies deeper,
and it bends with the wind.
To value the time that we have,
to see beauty in the smallest places,
and to love without fear,
is a talent easily lost.
And the line between happy and sad is drawn
with a thin pencil and a light touch.
In miniature perfection,
a daisy lives fully,
its face in the sunlight.
It lives, and that is enough.