THE POPPY GOERS

poppy-field-pictures-1after L. Frank Baum

Each year they return to lie among the poppies,
to sigh the opiate air and whisper, half whisper,
forget. The word is witching on their breath. Silence.

They dream remembrance until the poppies are gone
and bitter winds shake them. Where pretty flowers stood,
now flailing, angry pepperpots sow next year’s crop.

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