by James B. Nicola
Pick one stalk only, if you please.. . . No need to beg my pardon.I’m delighted you like daisiesAnd I’m glad you found my garden.That’s why this path’s called Lover’s Lane.You saw my sign at the road?. . . So you’re in love? . . . Inspired? . . . Insane!—Oh, I know how that story goes.That’s why I grow them. Take one, then,For “loves me, loves me not.”But it won’t help to try againIf you don’t like the result.That’s why around the flowerbedI’ve patches of wildflowers, too.I like to watch them sprout and spreadFor passersby like you.The daisies like this mound apartFrom the primrose and the rest,Where they can tempt the stoutest heartTo stoop and take their test.So choose one. Pick it, pluck it slow,Say the words, and you’ll know. But beware.I know, because, I know; I knowBecause of who’s buried there.