Nico Hartnett
To what end, the tragedy of daisy crowns?
The casualties, the casual inevitability
of being left—
dry of sap, pistils pollen free—
in spiraling numbers on a ground
plucked clean of yellow dandelions.
Gentle mortality follows a wavering foot trail of bending blades pressed down
into the earth.
I think as I pluck and I pick
and the chain of flower buds trails behind me:
I stand akin to a parading queen
among the grasses, white shoes stained pink-yellow-green.
And I think about the tragedy of daisy crowns.
Surely, each is made for someone.
Sometimes, one is made for me.
And it is with grim inevitability
and grace, this dandelion diadem
must face the fate
of falling from my hair.
Sweet-smelling casualties. And desolate.
Here am I, parading through the smaller side
of petals, pink and white.
Taking in the soft fragility of my (briefly) royal life.
It is a simple life to lead,
though it swells with such uncertainty.
Beauty breaks with spring, and with its children brings
careful fingers—plucking, picking
breaking, pulling—always sticking
stems in stems in stems.
Flower chains remind me that our life is fraught with sudden ends