always, i pick up all the white daisies i see

(even the flawed, the ripped apart) (even the ones who hurt)

add them to the basket

for the bees and my garden

(oops!) i’m overflowing / with some type of softness / a genre of love,

i know this is / a letter of love / from the moon and our sun.


swimming through white clouds and its sun,

her warmth leaks upon the holes of my skin;

spilling into me like a contagious disease

shoving her warmth down my throat

 (tenderly, kindly, in sweetness)

i will always be addicted to love; 

yours, mine,                                   us and the bees—


it tastes so much sweeter

dripping with the scents of summer

(i mean, how could you not love the smell of love?)

and it's all right here, in front of you

a garden of the kind, soft, generous leaves and trees

through the quiet days and the thunder, too

     (come here,  have this white daisy.)