The daisies were magnificent this year:
Swan-white, gilt-tipped, hearts blazing with
All the colors of a San Francisco sunset.
I wish you could have seen them!
I saved as many as I could, but – What?
Picnic in the meadow?
Sounds lovely, dear – Me? I...
[Hands fumble at the sill, rearranging pots]
You go, she says,
My flat's a mess, and I
Have daisies still to press.