The Poppy

Sturdy   yet fragile
a face of grace
holding on to air that moves
petals like wings
she loves wind’s hands upon her face
but with tenacities fingers
crumbling clods to slowly builds gates
listening she yearns toward the road the river takes
wanting to travel someplace unnamed   like him
to follow the sound he makes    her whim
maybe a mean wind she thinks could take one small part
an orange piece of heart
that could go with the flow
even where cement would ransom beauty
into the arms of the sea
but she turns away instead
to dance naked with the tree
one arm still holding tenacity.

Open me

she calls to sun   guessing the hour

the wind has blown the tresses of the field alive

and on the road to harmony 

she is not the only flower to thrive 

the sound of the river is life sustaining

down down in the middle part of earth

it seeps into the press of dirt around

and fills her with love for river sun and wind

and now     most blessed love of all    the ground