I cut the marguerites from the garden

and placed them in a vase.

They stood there twisting and turning

this way and that.

I placed my glass carefully

well out of range of their gold dust filled heads

I spoke to them sternly,

“don’t you dare drop your pollen in my wine!”

They seemed to hang their heads

in contemplation

except for one.

She turned her dainty daisy head

with great deliberation

and nodded

so that a shower

of bright yellow pollen

floated like sprinkled gold

onto my red wine.

It left a bitter taste.


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