How will the daisy take its wayward glance?

I’ve stood here with the instruments of time,

The way a hermit listens to the wind,

Waiting for an act upon the eye.

 

No lines from the hovering bud

In the silent greenness of the spring:

The bees are orbiting their earthly hive,

Light creeps as if it would sing – 

 

A cadence rings; I’m startled by a face:

The daisy winks, a pupil of the sun.