Queen of the Patches

There must have been some folly that brought you here. Was it something funny looking—a human grazer, nice bits from a mechanical or natural system? Which wild things came first? A friendly pig with tusks, or a lovable, stoic, bloodstained bull?

Oink oink. Boots is the undisputed queen of the patches here.

We love these daisies. So peaceful. Someday we'll all be covered with bellis perennis—lovely common marguerite. We meet the growers where they are, understand their families and colonies, their hands that labor in weathered conditions, undocumented and undeniably real.

Breathe through the wreckage, carrying softness. Let it settle into its own melody. Workers curved by labor, hands steady despite history's neglect, voices humming soft, persistent, unrecorded by rulers, etched into eternity.

This trembles between ruin and grace—harsh and tangled, messy and frayed, steeped in divinity, drenched in presence. Move like a holy river, fluid, uninterrupted, seamless in its grace.

The garden knows who shapes the world. The daisies remember.

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