Interfering with flowers

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On the downward steps of railway ties brimmed with gray stones the size of Easter candy, I have left one row of adamant plants. At this moment ten daisies stand in pie-crust fragility braced by morning light. They swing a little in the breeze, clock-faced to the sun. Whoever said speaking of daisies, ``What will it be to look from God's side even of so simple a thing?'' did not think of complexity, perhaps never broke the flawless spoke with the sing-song spell, ``She loves me, she loves me not,'' as each composite petal popped complete from the slanting bract. When summer's job is done I cut some few wilted heads and thumb the center seeds, a browning disk mounted in a spiral roundel. I scatter this promise on good earth and bad, leave it to wind/sun/rain, whatever provides for an intricacy that thrives common as green or sky. So exigent its genius and timed exactly by light, who could call it simplicity, from our side?

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