Daisy Chains, or Lackadaisicality

I have my own chains

When I was just a little girl,
I asked my mother what would I be.
She responded that I would be easy going,
and so I tried to be easy going–
the chill, cool girl–
who laughs at her cares
and lets them slough off her consciousness
like water rolling off the back of a duck.
But, Mother, I am not naturally easy going.

I sought inspiration for this carefree state.
I read about fictional girls
and their days plucking stark white daisies
from the emerald ground,
delicately combining the stems to make chains
that are then further transforming them into crowns.

I have my own chains–
chains that bind,
chains that loose,
chains that set me free,
but mostly chains whose weight reminds me
of what I will never be.

I gather my own pile of daisies,
and place them in a circle around me–
a floral moat that I lack a drawbridge to cross.
I go through these flowers,
holding them one by one,
gazing at their pale, pure hue,
smelling their delicate odor,
and peeling their petals off,
saying, “It matters.”
“It matters not.”
“It matters.”
“It matters not.”

Photo by Hilary Halliwell from Pexels


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