There’s a patch of daisies by the hedge. Every year I say I’ll let them grow and save them from the blades of the mower.

The dandelions glow yellow yelling glory into the air. They close up tight at night saving their brilliance for the day.

Then suddenly they turn to seed, clocks counting.

The ones that grow in earth and grass have luscious stems and large round heads. The ones that grow out of cracks in the pavement are taller and thinner and have several heads, as though not sure ever of their survival.