At my feet the white-petaled daisies display the small suns of their center-piece—their, if you don’t mind my saying so—their hearts. Of course I could be wrong, perhaps their hearts are pale and narrow and hidden in the roots. What do I know. But this: it is heaven itself to take what is given, to see what is plain; what the sun lights up willingly; for example—I think this as I reach down, not to pick but merely to touch the suitability of the field for the daisies, and the daisies for the field.
