Daisy Days

Green crests the sun’s belly,

Down that western way.

When bullseye flowers sing

To dusk, and pray.

Pale petals peel the fraying day.

Then bright moons come;

Fling a twinkling cape

Of stars over the lonely grass.

And butterflies which butter-hum,

Or are they crickets? Jumping

In the croaking shrub.

Thorn-blankets wake me,

Where, content, I lay.

My dewy bed of flowers say:

Be with me, be!

In blooming hymn to bluing day.