Daisy, White

There is a deserted home on a busy street not far from where I live.
The house is not old.
It is simply waiting to be sold and then torn down.
The property has become too valuable to hold grass and trees and bushes.
It is on its way to hosting an asphalt parking lot.
While it lies in wait, the front yard has turned itself into a field of weeds
      one last time.
Among that green growth, in June and July, are several large pockets of color,
      five feet in diameter, ten.
Bright white and deep orange/yellow sway in unison
      above green stems and leaves.
Daisies.
They’re unplanted by human hand, so far as I can tell.
They stand joyfully oblivious to the rushing traffic just a few feet away.
They dance exuberantly in their reach for the sky.
I knelt several times in that showy garden one Saturday morning,
      just after a rain.
As is often the case, I photographed these flowers not in pairs or in crowds,
      but one at a time, as individuals,
            because that’s the way they reveal their true essence.
Words fail me as a response to these delicate creations,
      so completely common, so amazingly uncommon.
So I must let this photograph say what I cannot.