Loves me, loves me not

Before the cards, before the coffee grounds, before any oracle with a Greek name, there was this: a daisy picked from the roadside and a question nobody dared to ask out loud. Loves me, loves me not. Petal by petal, until the flower runs out of arguments and tells the truth.

Everyone knows the short version, but the full rhyme — the one that came from France — has five grades: a little, a lot, passionately, madly, not at all. That is the scale this daisy uses, because a heart is rarely satisfied with a plain yes or no: the real question is almost always how much.

The ritual is the old one: think of that person — only them — and pluck the petals one at a time, reciting as you go. Nobody knows how many petals a daisy carries, and that is the whole point: the flower's own chance is what answers. Whichever grade falls on the last petal is what the daisy has to tell you today.

Is it science? No — and proudly so: it is one of the most tender customs people ever invented for asking the world what they could not ask a person. Take it for what it is — a nudge, a comfort or a smile — and if you do not like the answer, the meadow always has another daisy.