The Daisies Miss Me
Leslie Cairns
I grew up on Amber Way, where the tree fell on my Dad’s Chevrolet but it somehow ran. & back then I ran and swerved – left behind – past rocks big as kindergartners, thinking that I had all the summers in the world to obtain scabbed knees. I sat there, folded over, and wondered if the daisies missed me in between.
Then, I outgrow the worn down moss carpet, the pine wood for the ceilings. Now, I think of that place, and don’t think of home. Squinching eyes, instead, I think of friends in sleeping bags, staring up at the tree colored ceilings, asking how we breathe in homes of trees–
So then I renamed the next place I went. A ranch house placed near Amish farm pies, and skies that stretched tight with either blizzards or blustery sunburns. & I learned how to tattoo my roots with something akin to tending. Peeling down the blisters on my fingers, tending to the plants planted in perfect rows near the hummingbirds, beaks open and biting for nectar–
& then I outgrew it. Dashed and revolted, drove an ambling car to the mountains, like we all do
When we need to see the steering wheel go on autopilot, climb to cruising speed,
And stay the same for miles.
I haven’t renamed this place yet,
When the skies bruise, magenta and magnolia orbs flickering in my vision,
The tears mixing in my bedding and my concrete like confetti–
I’ll know it’s time to bloom again.
