: the day the daisies didn’t wilt :

It wasn’t a cause for rejoicing. I nearly took to my bed.

Okay, that’s an exaggeration, although it was upsetting. Not unexpected, but definitely upsetting. You see, every morning for months the sun has drilled down with such intensity my potted daisies would wilt in the harsh glare. Their cheerful pink heads would droop, their stems would sag, and they’d look osteoporotic — or like someone with writer’s hump. So, quick as a bunny, I’d whisk them into the shade and, schwing, they’d snap back to their perky selves in no time flat.

I’m surprised daisies are such weaklings, to be honest. With pansies you know they’re sissies from the get-go — I mean, duh, they aren’t named pansies for nothing. I really thought daisies would be tougher. But they aren’t and I was wrong; daisies can’t take the heat. Which is why their zippy, bouncy appearance the other morning was a sucker punch to the heart. It was jarring proof the earth has moved farther from the sun, its glorious strength is ebbing away.

Soon, we’ll be shivering in our shoes and staring into a grim, dark winter. We really don’t need any more discouragement. Personally, I’m at full capacity. I need sunshine and lots of it. I need blooming flowers and chirping birds, breezy walks and open windows, bare feet and short sleeves and warmth. I need hope. Or a passport would do, for relocation to the southern hemisphere.

Was there a cold snap or is it just me?

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