Tossing the Dice to Happiness

2–3–6/ 5–3–3/ 3–1–6/ 5–3–6

Twelve rolls direct the growth of the daisy poem

Joyous
The Shasta
Daisies by the Bistro

That we call our own
Paradise —
Our garden.

From nothing
In
Winter not long ago.

Just soil so brown,
Snow secured,
Hiding what soon will grow.

You loved
Those daisies
When you were a child.

Next to the milkweed
In your yard.
Your Eden.

Youthful play,
You
Picked the petals wild —

A game, done for love
So alone,
But ne’er meek or mild.

You would
Crush the seeds
That made your palm yellow

Then blow on the seeds,
Counting them
For the name —

The number
For
Your ensuing fellow.

If three seeds remained
You would fall
For a Chris so mellow.

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