effortlessly, my own

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.