The Promise of Wild Daisy

Sometimes it helps
to make a promise
to the pale, green earth.

Before nightfall. While
the landscape is changing.

During the remorse of rain.

They cannot erase
fields of star as easily
as they silence ghosts,
or raze the meadows.
Remove the trees.
But they try. They try.

Make your promises. Cling
to slender necks of wild daisy.
Endure the poison of cryptic weed.
Outlast the copper sunlight fading.

People are dying. Broken.
With pierced veins. Mixed
blood in twisted vines
and blossoms blue of morning glory.
Surely, earth will not deliver them.

Nor shall I. Nor shall I.

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