low chance of rain—the
breeze of heat, heavy
a poppy will lose strength
begin to curl at the stomach
clumps of red, falling—wind
that carries desert sand
arriving and
the swing sparks grass
dry and brown like
flickering stars
wherever hope keeps knocking
with every failed attempt.
the stem that carries the weight—
letting it go—colliding with the dead
again—rising
before the fire catches
on something as dry and wild
as itself—and sometimes
aground for days
once petals fall and the skin, thick
is harder to love.
the bending stem curled
in surrender and
all the pretty poppy seeds made
ice-numb and dreaming—
a summer storm could fell
hold close to the ground
especially now.
wait for spring, for
easy, red petals, the
clouds will fill and touch
every spot—how
their shape is a truth,
maybe a ship
or your friend not lost
but right there, remembered
like the indestructible heat in
memory, too or a poppy’s
most, heavy head
and the sparks and
their immortality.
In Due Proportion 