Every so many years this field is full of daisies. I’m glad this farmer doesn’t spray them!
Can we, with naught but ink descry
A field of flowers laughing by?
O, pretty planet, blessed by bloom
A wanderer’s grand living-room
Can we, with humble poetry
Preserve what Time will strip from thee?
Did God forget to gate His Berth?
And then, did heaven fall to earth?
How else can Eden’s echo spill
Like angels to wood-lot and rill
Where we, with speechless friendship flirt
With miracles drawn from Time’s dirt
…and where the grass is dappled, we
Of clamoring society
Should come more often to this place
Of sweet and simple flower-grace
Where bud is not compelled to pine
For something more than God’s design
The hills are white with summer-snow
And we delight at its brief show
Before the quickening of air
Bestows to rose what all will bear
A little bloom beneath the sun
Before our little life is done
© Janet Martin