daisy flower - quotes and descriptions to inspire creative writing
The daisy is a tiny boat floating in that green sea, she has all the time in the world to simply be. In soft breezes the grass becomes her dance partner, both of them free and together. I see how the light brings her petals to the kind of white that dazzles just a little, so bright next to her sunny core. Yet, in truth that middle is a bouquet of golden blooms, one for the bees and the keen eyes who seek.
As a girl I loved the daisy flowers for their daring simplicity, their tenacious spirit, growing where they weren't supposed to and yet bringing more beauty to our street. In the springtime the daisies sprouted to the dismay of the gardeners, their perfect lawns looking more like the meadows they yearned to be. I never thought about the meaning of the daisy flower until I was a woman, too old to be making chains in the late afternoon sun. The daisy is about loyalty to love and commitment, and I'm all about that. My garden is for the cornflowers, the poppies, buttercups and, of course, the daisies. Grasslands are natural communities not monocultures. That's why lawns are such hard work, they're going against the natural way.
A daisy flower, a lone speck of white and yellow, grows precociously amid the perfect green of father's new grass. She glows proudly in the May sunshine, her golden core a perfect image of the sun above. This pioneering flower won't last long, or even live a short but glorious life in a daisy chain. Before the day is done she'll be dug up, roots and all, and cast into the compost.
April sees my birth-flower appear like buttons over the lawns, the daisy flowers meaning innocence and purity. Every petal lies perfect under the sun, white, yet kissed pink at the tips. I love that they come not in ones or twos, but in hundreds like an intense floral flash-mob.
Daisies have never been welcome in the city gardens. The stripes of grass between the perfectly square beds are a uniform green, the only variations coming from which direction the lawn-mower past over. Yet this morning, shining like a perfect miracle, there is a daisy bejewelled by dew. Her newly opened petals, held outward like a ballet dancers arms, reflect the morning rays. I bend onto my knee to glance at the flower; common though she is just to see this daisy brings something to my morning that has been missing these many months...
On the mossy steps by the church, Fifi sits, a pile of daisies spreading over her Sunday skirt. A few flowers tumble down unto the damp concrete, and all about her are lone petals making the tiny confetti flecks. Her face as a tight look about it, her brows set firmer than the ministers. One by one she plucks a daisy from her lap, admires it briefly, and then sets about plucking each delicate white petal in turn. Under the sound of the car tires that hiss on the road her voice can just be made out - "He loves me, he loves me not, he loves me, he loves me not..."
A common daisy is all Sammy brings, the ends of its white petals blushed pink. He holds the flower up to me like a great treasure, and in its way I guess it is. The form of the bloom is no less impressive than the asters I keep in a vase, only its size makes it a simple weed. I beam Sammy a smile that's all teeth and offer him my fingers to hold as we set off to the kitchen for an egg cup vase.
The daisies made such a fine bouquet. They weren't the small flowers that be-speckle the lawn each spring, but the large asters, the giant daisies, that grow a couple of feet tall in the summer sun. It wasn't until I first held them all together that I ever considered their perfume. It wasn't the sweet cloying scent of a rose, but rather it was unbashful and tart, cutting through the air as easily as lemon.
The flower was daisy-like in appearance. Tear drop petals of sun-burnt orange fanned out better than a lion's mane. To the end of each petal the orange hue deepened to such an intensity that it became almost red. To the centre, where the true flowers lay, tiny and yellow in their perfect circle, was a bee. Every few seconds there would be a buzz from the wings that lay transparent over the body of black and yellow fuzz...
The daisy flowers are arranged in a garland over the heavy oak table. Though to me "daisy" means a simple white flower no larger than a stamp, these are anything but. Each bloom is an extroverted shade: shocking magenta, sherbet-orange or a yellow brilliant enough to rival the July sun. Their thick green stems are woven at the back into something close to a perfect ring. In just a day they will wilt, let their petals rain to the ground, yet it matters not. Today is the wedding and the garland is the reception centre piece. The bride and groom are nothing if not vibrant and full of joy and these asters are the perfect choice.
Sitting just behind her ear is a daisy tattoo. The flower isn't a simple outline, but a bloom as full as any painted on a canvass. The petals have a soft pink hue, delicate against the sunny centre. I want to ask her what it means to her, why a simple daisy flower? But before I summon the courage she's swept away in the crowd...