Stephen Schwei. Poetry

DAISY If I was a daisy in a sun-breezed meadow, one among millions and my kids were looking to find me, drawing near, their voices louder, then growing fainter, exasperated, searching, maybe even giving up. If I was searching for myself, and couldn’t distinguish or describe me well enough. Would it matter after this season is gone? Do I know any season but this one? I converse with my neighbors, blossom and sway according to nature’s rhythms, sharing stories of how our children...

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