"He loves me, he loves me not...he loves me, he loves me not"
A fun game, unless you're a daisy.
If you're a daisy....
A beautiful sunny day, a perfect little breeze, some industrious bees - and then! A ruthless hand swoops down from out of nowhere, and plucks you up, sundering stem and root. Ahhh, the pain.
But wait, you've been cautioned of this moment - and you know that now you will be transformed into an object of admiration and delight, perhaps a bouquet. Perhaps you will gain the ultimate honor, and a gentle hand will will weave you among you're siblings, and crown an innocent brow with your beauty.
You quiver with anticipation.
What is this? Petals ripped from stamen, one by one, a slow dismemberment. This is not how bouquets are made. A distant thunder mutters, "He loves me, he loves me not..."
Why? ? ??? ??????????
Because they CAN.