Daisy

I remember roaming around
the garden,
dry sand,
grass brittle,
poking at my bare feet

Mom,
hauling buckets of recycled water
“My poor plants.”

The only thrivers
in this botanical boneyard
magenta Bouganvillas
leaning against the wall
languid
and tough little white daisies.

I would pick them,
when she wasn’t watching,
naive, oblivious of the necessity
of roots to stay alive,
and brush their furry
yellow centers
on my upper lip,
delighted to have their
sentient nature
so close to me.