For three nights I lay
seeing poppies burst
their tight green pouches,
nude fuzzy lollipops
so sexy they border on indecent
as their great enveloping mouths flap into life.
They revolve in the July air
like a dream that won’t be still
or a prayer yet unspoken.
Vagrant apparitions circling the locust tree.
They flare wildly out of control
for a single flamboyant week and then float
flatly to the ground.
Bright ancient fans of pale fluttering pink
dime store red
and flagrant orange –
Bright ancient fans strewn at the feet of those prophets.,
the trees.
Stephanie Moran
Durango
