Daisy

It had no right
to be growing there—
in the cracked seam
between the house and the path,
where runoff pooled
and the dog pissed
and nothing green should last.

But there it was.
One daisy.
Tilting toward the heat
like it believed
in something.

Not blooming
exactly,
just holding on,
a yellow eye
in a world
that never looked back.

I could’ve crushed it
on the way to the bin.
I could’ve stepped wide
and not noticed.

But I stood there,
foot half-raised,
thinking of all the small things
we kill
because we don’t
call them beautiful
in time.

Ryan Stone