The daisies were magnificent this year:
Swan-white, gilt-tipped, hearts blazing with
All the colors of a San Francisco sunset.
I wish you could have seen them!
I saved as many as I could, but – What?
Picnic in the meadow?
Sounds lovely, dear – Me? I...
[Hands fumble at the sill, rearranging pots]
You go, she says,
My flat's a mess, and I
Have daisies still to press.
I love the description here. The one thing I'm not sure of is how well the bit in brackets works, but that's more an issue with the formatting than the flow.
I enjoy the rhyme scheme within this poem. You did it well. I find it difficult to make rhyme meaningful, so I am always impressed when I find someone who can achieve that feat. Nice work.
So preoccupied with trapping old memories that new ones cannot be made. I know the feeling well. Or at least, I know something like it.