I come from Madagascar.
My pedals burn with sunrise gold,
blush with sunset’s crimson fold.
My stem priming with heat of equator,
in the sun’s glamour my pistils glow.
I dwell in valleys deep and wide,
greeting dawns and dusks with pride.
Clouds gathering — I bloom instead,
for petals rise like suns ahead.
Rain may fall, but none of fuss or fear,
My leaves summon skies to clear.
Among flowers that bow and hide,
I stand tall with fires inside.
I the epitome of Sun shed late light.
A stubborn blaze and a bold sign.
“Grandma!”—a girl’s thrilled cry,
“Little suns are scattered nigh!”
A rough hand picks me from the grass,
pinning me where hoary strands amass.
Under the grey lifeless sky,
fields and tufts lost long their shine.
Yet in her hair, a light is born—
a Barberton daisy, the clouds are torn.
