Asleep, she has no idea she is old.

She’s running uphill, no lightfoot, but quite fast

past the houses and driveways of family friends

toward the higher fields just breaking into flower

that weren’t there before, when she was awake.

She stops at the tree edge. The sight that yields

is daisies. Careful she enters the pathless field

of daisies daisies hundreds sunning. She takes

her time. She crouches among their stems. Bowered

low, she looks up at their heads, their far sky.

The wind’s soft. The sunclock’s high. It can’t last.

Aunt Grace is coming to lunch, she’s been told.

Good. Maybe she brings a love-me-not daisy or

Love-me. Aunt Grace will know what daisies are for.