Poppies in any other month
wouldn’t be so crucial
as dead weight,
floating air;
past participles, glistened
on paper, bled,
bleached white,
words so invisible,


no one
can see the dark,
the cold of pupils void of light.
You paint me rosy,
deep red when you’re angry,
but I am nothing but blue
when stars gleam sapphire,
saffron imagination weeping
ripples wafting this love
to modest meadows for miles
of nothing but blushing sky.


In January, when gray steals sun
and pansies lie in waiting
for delicate tumbling weeds
to dance in, dreamy eyed;

copper mornings- wishes
hanging on clothes lines
like strings of hearts
every Valentine’s day.


Hear those church bells
chime like there is no tomorrow
while dusty autobiographies
tell tender stories over coffee
to anyone who will listen
and here I am yearning
for just one more barefoot stroll
and four initials in wet sand.


We will get to San Josef again-
take another unpaved road,
all uphill
and watch poppies flicker,
from a distance,
like Sylvia did, bleeding red,
and hot as July.



4 thoughts on “Red

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