Edges

-

I see daisies in June

rising from the wastes,

those weeds that haunt

our momentary neglect

 

How we disparage

the ranks of them

peering over the thresholds

of the manicured

 

They illumine the rural roads,

bend for the goldfinches

gathering like lemons,

pull our eyes to the little suns

 

Oh, the glower

of futile perfectionists,

bitter with sickle and hoe

who think this world

is for them

 

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