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A single daisy flower, alone, hidden beneath dried and frosted plants survived the chills of late November. I plucked it and put it in a cobalt vase, and began to study it. The handles of the vase swept up and behold La fata del Montel and her father...arguing about the magic that had been misappropriated. The daisy flower, alone and isolated, can only do her best to survive a little longer. Should the daisy dwell upon the juggler or other circus acts? Or should she count her petals to see if “he loves me, he loves me not?” Or should she dream her fantasies... “He loves me...He loves me not.” Take off the face paint; get to work...daydreaming and daisies never last, not even in good weather.