Conversing With Daisy

Does he truly love me?
I asked the small flower which grew in my bower.
You do have the power to answer my plea.

The truth I will reveal.
The thoughts he can provoke, they fill me, I choke.
This pain is no joke, this agony I feel.

Your intrusion is fate.
I see your sweet face and feel no disgrace
at my words. In this place, will he ask me to wait

while he speaks to Papa?
Will he ask for my hand? Will I wear a gold band?
Is my future planned, just like my Mama?

I know I am weak.
But I really must know, will he marriage bestow?
My feelings must not show, for a maid must be meek.

The flower did not speak.

by Irene C S ClarkHogg

Comments (4)

Extremely captivating portrayal of various shades of nature over time until it all withered with age. Gold chrysanthemums.... This season I could not bear / To pick them. Fine rain sifts through the wu-t’ung trees And drips, drop by drop, through the dusk / What can I ever do now?
By expression of it, you have already rid it off you must just continue living. an article recently which said people who felt life was hopeless, had a much shorter you must drive away hopelessness.....
I'm convinced... sadness is the mother poetry!