‘Round My Door
There are daisies ‘round my door,
purple daisies ‘round my door,
nodding as the errant drops
land upon their sunny tops.
Raindrops like a leaky faucet
running a Rube Goldberg gauntlet
threading convoluted jigs
through aspen leaves and willow twigs.
Slither, plummet, then rebound
another inch towards the ground.
Gravity is gently calling
to the raindrops wildly falling.
Closer now they group then dash
apart in one last valiant splash
and leap one more time before
they bop the daisies ‘round my door.
The purple daisies ‘round my door.