The Choice and Daisy Trysts

The Choice

How often it comes to this pain,
this stopping of will, an ache that
will not cease.
How often His leading is something
that I cannot see and it fills me with
fear for I can't seem to trust, though I know
He is worthy.

He stops me right here, with the pain
in my chest, and I open the Psalms and read of
David's unrest where his soul cleaved, and
his sorrow grew, but still -
He chose You.

LORD, I cannot fathom You
will, and I'm still afraid, and I'm still
blind, but You still stay.
I know You will teach me and lead
me to where I will relish Your joy
and bask in Your glory and laugh with
relief from the testing,
but until that time, I will choose
Your way, for Yours is the hope of the
hopeless and grieving.

Daisy Trysts

It's very fashionable today to sing about
disappointment in love, or anger against one who should
have cared.

I prefer simplicity. He did this, she said that,
boys eyes gleam, girl says yes, that kind of story.
It might not ever happen, but one really can't know.

You never know when something magical might happen.
A chance meeting, a common desire, similarities not even considered
to be important, but you might be exactly
what they've been looking for.

The songs that should be written, the ones that some
beggar could write if he had paper, they're as sad as
someone without hope or dream.

The ones already written, the ones I listen to whenever I can
because I'm a silly sentimentalist who can't get her head out of the clouds,
they're the ones that seem like they are all written for me,
or for him,
or for anyone who's day has been made by something they'd forgotten
to dream about.

It's as if every word I could write, regardless the subject matter
or the vulgarity, would be dripping with honey made from daisies.

It is assumed that the rose is the ultimate flower of romance,
but the daisy has such a hopeful face, always looking for and
mimicking the sun, how can one deny the imagery of something
so happy and bred for sonnets?

The wildflowers tell it best, for their trysts with the bees
mock every artificial attempt we make to convey their happiness.
When we fail, we eat their nectar, on white bread, toasted to a golden brown,
eaten in the shapes of triangles.