Somewhere on this spinning earth, a young woman sits inside her attic room, under a window gleaming with sun, or cooling the floor in white moonlight. She clutches one white daisy in a fist, plucking white petals away from its saffron root. "He loves me...he loves me not..." she chants as each petal floats to the floor, bits of beauty discarded in her search of truth and answers to a question her heart can't help but ponder.
When she grew up, she walked through an open field of vibrant moss and myrtle, with splashes of violet, cerise and cornflower blue. The thought dawned: God created an entire field of daisies, whole and rooted, as an act of glorious, ecstatic love. A fragrant and awesome portrait of the beauty He placed in her.
She would no longer need to observe the falling of petals to test a love.
She was whole enough to accept a mans love now...even if it went away.
A deeper love existed, shown even in the petals of daisies.