I’m showing my age, and proudly, when I ask this—do you remember the sweet old song called Daisy Bell?
“Daisy, Daisy, tell me your answer, do/ I’m half crazy all for the love of you…”
Those lyrics and that tune lodged itself in my memory when I was nine or ten years old. I can clearly visualize my Aunt Gloria—a professional singer in her day—leaning over the metal cage in my living room and singing that song to Daisy, my little blond guinea pig.
I’ve always loved the simple flower with the unassuming face and the heavy Latin name of Bellis Perennis. A recent prompt about flowers in a writing group brought forth this little poem:
I invited a Daisy to sit with me
under the shadow of a splendid green tree.
The flower politely declined my invite
to rest and converse in the cool filtered light.
Shade, she said, is not my friend.
I’ll lose my petals, my stem will bend.
Give me the sun on my upturned face
and I’ll blossom and multiply all over the place.
Daisy, said I, it’s clearly true
you are my favorite, my favorite is you.
No deception, no thorns, could possibly hide
in your bright yellow head, or your petals so wide
Your beauty is honest, and simple, and true
as flowers go, Daisy, my favorite is you.