I used to draw daisies
growing through the sidewalk.

Bloom where you are planted.

I meant it
every time.

Somewhere, a woman
is hearing her own life
in a voice she does not recognize.

She is searching the faces.
She is explaining again.

Daisies pass from hand to hand.

A little less root.
A little more chain.

How lovely a story can look
with all the dirt
shaken off.

A piece of hers
will come to rest
in your palm.

Before you thread it
through the next,

leave room
for what you have not heard.

There may be a woman
at her kitchen table,

drawing daisies
in the cracks,

believing in you, anyway.