The Reaping Daisy

The sky is gilded with the arousal of the day as eastward earth is awakened by the gentle kiss of Apollo. A feeble flower holds its breath. The delicate daisy is tentatively waiting for the gardener. The Gardener no longer visits Daisy. As of late, it has only the rain to quench its loneliness. Summer cicadas spare it the silence with their songs. The shy kisses of honeybees steal its sorrow. The sun washes away her drear with his somber smile.

But the winter is creeping over the mountains-clawing its way into the valley. The cicadas cease their singing. The hive of bees is full. The rain turns to frozen ash. The sun sinks away.
Daisy is overcome with the deafening silence of the cold. Wilted are her petals that once reached for the sun. Numb are her roots that no longer embrace the earth. Summer is but a fantasy that was promised by the spring.
Daisy recalled the way Gardener glanced at her every day when he walked by. He spared a seconds glance each time. And each time he looked directly past her. She was nothing to him. The day he lovingly set her in the soil was nothing more than a memory. He saw that she suffered.
That she shriveled.
That she reached for him.
Called his name.
He saw that she was withering and brittle.
And it made her so ashamed.
The way he looked beyond her as if she were a pest.
So when the sky finally fell on her
She surrendered to its hold
The gardener wasn't coming for her
And summer lay asleep
So she dwindled into nothingness
No hope left to reap