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.