I think I like daisies, particularly the smaller ones, because they almost pass as weeds unlike other flashy flowers. . . . Not a flat, Not an apartment by road, Not my father's house, Not my man's A house of my own. With vases full of daisies, my pillow and my porch. Few books piled on the other slippers by the bed; a coffee mug on the table made of white oak With footprints of my wet feet , as I tiptoe from shower to my room A room with canopy of cream linen. And a garden of daisies I grew on my own With post-it notes on refrigerator, inside jokes. On the kitchen island: Some electricity bills, few grocery lists Loads of unfinished artsy canvas, and the many glasses I own Daises in the cozy corner with chairs that fold; Living room dancing on the rug, not too old A place I can rest, light as snow No one to guide, No one to scold No one to know, no one too cold Filled with daisies and Love A place, effortlessly, my own.