by Ethel Mortenson Davis
I think of one as a rose,
feminine yet voluptuous,
a powerful scent,
delicate like no other,
the first flower you go to
in the garden —
the oldest as a lily,
singular and strong,
standing apart from all the rest,
an example to all her sisters —
and then the white daisy,
clean and fresh
and wholly authentic—
one to have in your corner.
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