Daisies by the Roadside

When I was a child,

not so ruled by clocks and calendars, 

the first white daisies on the roadside

said summertime to me.

I picked those daisies by the armful.

Mom smiled and thanked me for the gift

despite the bugs who came along for the ride.

I put them in jars of coloured water,

and watched, fascinated,

as they drank deeply and changed before my eyes.

Daisy chains sufficient to circle the globe

were woven beneath cloud-drift, sunlit skies.

There were other things too:

Wild roses twined with honeysuckle

grazed by does through wire fences,

wobbly-legged fawns with dappled white coats

hidden in the shade nearby,

Birds singing in the dark an hour before sunrise,

and bats taking wing in evening skies,

Mild morning air

making bare-legged bike rides

for the first time not a punishment,

But,

then and still,

white daisies by the roadside
say summertime to me.