Lucille's Daisies

Each Sunday, I put on a kettle

During my wait, around the house I meddle

.

I will dust and correct the corner of my rug

And then I will push in the chairs and remove any bugs

I will search for some honey, and I am disappointed to find none

.

So I leave my tea on the stove,

I am sure to turn it off though

And then my poor feet ache, so I look for my slippers and my robe

The soft fur convinces me to sit, so my nook is where I go

.

My fingers are stiff, they long for some warmth

But I am too tired and out the window, someone comes forth

A young man who is tall and not handsome, but perfectly simple to the core

His hair reaches for his eyes and his freckles whisper a distorted lore

By my picket fence he stooped, and some flowers he plucked and bore

.

He hurried on and I gasped

My flowers? He stole and now grasps

I am much too late to catch him and I do not know if my energy will last

Meanwhile in the kitchen, my tea cools fast

.

I stand and shuffle to my door

Down my beautiful cobble walkway, my joints are so sore

I look upon my flowers and here a single tear will pour

.

Because there are so many flowers picked

Not enough to kill the growth, only enough to make me feel sick

.

My burnt oranges and deep blues,

My warm yellows and soft purples, too

All of them are there except you;

.

My treasured white daisies are nearly gone.

The only ones I care about and now I am alone

This man does not know it, but my sadness will be long

Until I can catch him and ask him why he's done what he's done

.

There it is, that familiar creeping feeling;

Like wishing to stand and wave goodbye to their leaving

They will turn down the block and the silence is suddenly so sealing

I can only hope they were serious but after enough years, it's revealing

That they will not be back again, so now I try to avoid thinking yet always end up feeling

...

It is Sunday so I put on a kettle

Normally, around the house I would meddle

.

The dust floats in the sunlight and somehow it is calm

My unopened mail on the table lifts and sings their taboo song

I would search for some honey, but I am tired of always finding none

.

With heavy breath, I drag out a chair

I drag and I sit by the sidewalk, slowly and with great care

The sun is warm and a spider and a ladybug give me a small scare

Maybe they are the ones in my house I always remove so fair

.

With a napkin I always scoop them up and then I apologize

Because I am as careful as I can be, but my hand shakes 'til they fall or fly

And I could never squish them or I certainly would cry

Because if I were so small and kind, neither would I want to die

So I ask them to see their way out, they nod, and I sigh

.

But here! Yes, here comes the man

His eyes remain downcast, there are beads of sweat as if he had ran

I wait patiently for his approach and I brace myself so I may stand

But I look down at the spider and ladybug who are on my hand

.

I will not move and disturb them so instead I call

The wind whistles and window shutters knock and fall

The man stoops again and picks a daisy, it causes me to stall

.

I wonder if he can hear me?

I don't think so, not at all.

.........................................................................................................................

I look again for the daisy

They are all I can see

.

I carefully pick one and again I take leave

To turn the corner of this beautiful house

Right off of the property there is a swing and some startled grouse

.

I lay the flower down on stone and am again on my knee

It burns in my throat how I return over and over out of greed

Everyone was devastated, only their condolences made it real

All of them were there, except you, Lucille

.

My storms, they rumble deep and sadness is engraved in my bones

I carved it myself by refusing to move on

The sharp stickers in the grass gently cut my palm

And again I swallow down the thunder I have held onto for so long

From my ribs, I read you what I wrote, tenderly but also strong

.

Eventually I wipe my nose and go to leave

I normally continue down this road but the wind whistles and carries some leaves

I watch as they curl back towards that house, the one that is asleep

When you died, the very walls remembered my grief

.

So I had to leave it, forgive me Lucille

And now our house lays dormant, though the memories reel

I walk towards it again and for you, more time I would steal

.

I look again for the daisies

But they are picked, and I leave the grouse to their grazing.