Daisies. Everywhere daisies.

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Daisies. Everywhere daisies.

By Michele Habel-Coffey

He held my eyes closed, covering them as we walked slowly into the light.  I felt the sun, a warmth on my bare shoulders and the smell of bitter mums.  The air was damp and crisp – early-morning summer. I drank it in, letting it roll down into my throat and settle in my chest. The dew still clung to the edges of all the world.  To the trees, and plants, and grasses, and mushrooms.  The edges of jagged barbed wire.  To my squishing shoes, filling the dry cracks of my sand-worn feet.

He lifted his hand and said, “ok”.

I opened my eyes as I breathed involuntarily inward.  I gasped.   “Oh.”

Daisies.  Everywhere daisies.

A field, acres wide and deep, edged perfectly by simple, white birches.  All daisies in between.  Dew glistening on the edges of it all.  Magnifiying.  Dazzling.  The smell of the new, the resistant, the perinneal.  Daisies.  Yellow and White.  And Green.

He turned and plucked me from the ground.  He swung me in circles like the wind.  I stirred the daisies with my flight and the scent of the sun filled the air all around.

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