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By John I. Blair

The dead daisy bush
Reproaches me from my garden;
Its foliage crumbles, disintegrates
As if scorched by a torch.

For years it reposed, neglected,
Confined in a too-small pot,
But sprawling far beyond the rim,
Nurtured by a secret taproot.

Then last week, urgent to paint,
Needing to move the plant
And ignorant of the taproot,
I tugged the daisy up.

Sometimes you canít tell
What makes a being thrive
Season after season in the same spot
Until youíve ripped them out.

©2003 John I. Blair

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