Cultivating through Chaos

I am Daisy, the product of two pioneers who, progressed through the prisons of poverty

to grant me an opportunity to chase their American Dream

I am the cultivator of crops, the first American

Watering the sneaking sprouts of my siblings in an educational drought of desolation

I am furnished with fatigue

From the endless reaping for the seeds of others, instead of my own

I am the sunlight, needed for a triumphant crop

Without me, nobody would enjoy the fruits of a plentiful season

My green thumb spurs spite with every canvas I touch, a scarcity among scholars

I am the farmer, the president of the fields

 Following the dreams drilled inside me by two fearless farmers

Whose aspirations were they only valuable they owned

I am the queen of my kingdom, known for successful soil

Making decisions that concern the comfort of my crops, and not the concerns of citizens

Whose words are as deteriorating as that of a harsh winter, green with envy

I pave rows and rows of fields, to make the day's work less for those I'm ahead of

My flourishing fields, an inheritance from the sorcerers of my success,

Began with a garden, an idea

Blooming in the burrows of my brain

Not the generous greenery with which you see me now

I am often criticized for my ways of harvesting

but am forgotten to thank when others enjoy the fruits of my prosperity

When drought and despair derive, I do not fear

For I know that what I have planted, is far greater than any other

From sunrise to sunset, my rake and shovel accompany me

Singing the songs of pioneer's past.