Let the flowers make a journey on Monday so that I can see ten daisies in a blue vase with perhaps one red ant crawling to the gold center. A bit of the field on my table, close to the worms who struggle blinding, moving deep into their slime, moving deep into God's abdomen, moving like oil through water, sliding through the good brown.
The daisies grow wild like popcorn. They are God's promise to the field. How happy I am, daisies, to love you. How happy you are to be loved and found magical, like a secret from the sluggish field. If all the world picked daisies wars would end, the common cold would stop, unemployment would end, the monetary market would hold steady and no money would float.
Listen world. if you'd just take the time to pick the white flowers, the penny heart, all would be well. They are so unexpected. They are as good as salt. If someone had brought them to van Gogh's room daily his ear would have stayed on. I would like to think that no one would die anymore if we all believed in daisies but the worms know better, don't they? They slide into the ear of a corpse and listen to his great sigh.