Bury me with my poppy.
My greatest memory; my simple joy.
Spring time brings brightness--
colors other than white.
A flushed landscape from
stamen performing as paint;
replicating a sleepy orange
yellow, green, red
I contemplate picking the poppy
to keep for myself.
Life feels large
like the sparkling lake--
that cold sunny hour when you sat
by a fire bordered by icy rocks.
The earth sheltered in poppies.
We all expect moments without an end.
Post-bloom petals fall flat before falling away.
Miracles can be a curse or a blessing,
brave or cowardly,
Swallowing up certainty.
Poppy tears
slowly release memories--
a crisp deliberate euphoria.
I leave behind the orange flower.
Appreciation is not lost.
Oct 8, 2013
Oct 8, 2013 at 9:29 PM UTC
Bury me with my poppy.
My greatest memory; my simple joy.
Spring time brings brightness--
colors other than white.
A flushed landscape from
stamen performing as paint;
replicating a sleepy orange
yellow, green, red
I contemplate picking the poppy
to keep for myself.
Life feels large
like the sparkling lake--
that cold sunny hour when you sat
by a fire bordered by icy rocks.
The earth sheltered in poppies.
We all expect moments without an end.
Post-bloom petals fall flat before falling away.
Miracles can be a curse or a blessing,
brave or cowardly,
Swallowing up certainty.
Poppy tears
slowly release memories--
a crisp deliberate euphoria.
I leave behind the orange flower.
Appreciation is not lost.
Request permission to use this poem