It's Still Life

Those Wild Poppies …

In a Danish field
you ripple, riding
a breeze. Your seeds
from dark to bright, blossoms
scattered like broken vows.

Wild peals
of feathered voice,
the wind that envies your
silken red.
Quick!
Root your brethren to a field
in drifts of delirium.

You scorn shadows
from shafts of wheat, scorn
the corn and its rigid rod.
You bend and dance,

so proud in your
scarlet skirts, growing
in clover
between the stones.

Your crimson cloud
is a sunset’s blush,
you red-skinned philosophy
cropped, and tilled in between
here and paradise.

For Part 2 of Miz Quickly’s Day 6: Rediscovering a place/scent/memory. Shared with #APoemADay on Twitter   ©Misky 2021