The daisy I pick from the hoarder’s overgrown yard
at 11:00 p.m. lasts a week in a glass of water,
the daisy from my lawn barely a day.
The wrecking yard across town, testimony to loss
of control, sports a few seasonal additions
amid goldenrod and chicory—jet ski, dune buggy,
one small egg-shaped camper trailer.
Midsummer, the garden cosmos becomes unruly,
waving shades of pink in a glorious free-for-all,
each single bloom a simple cartoon flower.
Late in August, one feeble sunflower
emerges from seeds I planted by the garage.
Down the street, a healthy stand of them bursts
from the hoarder’s weeds, as if to taunt me.
Meg Freer
Meg Freer grew up in Montana and lives in Ontario. She works as an editor and piano teacher, enjoys taking photos outdoors year-round, and wishes she had more time for writing poetry. Her writing has been published in various journals and anthologies.
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