June 23, 2026

Good morning!

It’s Tuesday. After seeing all that praise heaped on the peonies yesterday, the daisies requested a word. Look, they said. They know they aren’t blousy or decadent. They don’t evoke grandiose paintings or poetry or perfume. They never set out to be anything other than what they are: simple, cheerful, wild daisies that reseed with abandon.

These particular ones showed up directly in the path of where the lawn mower needed to go. Maybe they did this on purpose, because, unlike the peonies, they got to be snipped, paraded into the house, and given a fresh glass of water and a prime spot on a table by the window.

“Stoop where thou wilt, thy careless hand
Some random bud will meet;
Thou canst not tread, but thou wilt find
The daisy at thy feet.”

—Thomas Hood

Onwards,

Clara