At my feet the white-petalled daisies display
the small suns of their center piece, their – if you don’t
mind my saying so – their hearts.
I could be wrong, perhaps their hearts are pale and
narrow and hidden in the roots.
What do I know?
But this: it is heaven itself to take what is given,
to see what is plain; what the sun lights up willingly;
for example – I think this
as I reach down, not to pick but merely to touch –
the suitability of the field for the daisies, and the
daisies for the field
Mary Oliver, Daisies