The daisies in our front yard reach high for the midsummer sun. A fantasy forest, they come from nowhere and then, one sad autumn day, I realize they are gone. It happens every year.
Maybe it's because they reside in a patch of earth near the front stairs. I never seem to be present when I'm walking down the stairs. I'm ever on the way to somewhere else as I scurry down them. The daisies have their own agenda and come and go as they please. Every time I notice them I plan to make a visit to the patch for an extended stay. Alas, it never seems to happen.
Today, as I was rummaging through my image library I came across a photo of one of the daisies. Like finding a photo of a long-lost lover or deceased relative, it made me sad. Why didn't I enjoy the daisies while they lasted? Did I take them for granted? I look out my studio window as I write this. There within the grid of window mullions I see the patch of raw dirt that was the daisy field not so long ago. It is a long wait until summer next.
I look back at the photo. Is the daisy flirting with me? It leans dangerously over the edge of its territory. Kissed by a spotlight of sun, it beacons me to slow down. I did stop for a second to make a photo but it was a perfunctory visit at best. I then ran down the steps, eager to be somewhere else. The daisy was still there upon my return. I then neglected it again.
As I stare out the window, I promise to make a visit to the daisy forest once summer returns. This time I mean it. I swear I do.