Poppies

A blood red poppy all of a sudden bloomed

Completely out of the blue (or green) this year.

Since none had thus far been seen, we assumed

This to be a lonely, lingering, singular premier.

Yet on the 'morrow came more, the same,

Marching with frail petals, under our star,

With a carpet of red met by buzzing bees

And a breeze carrying voices from afar.

Who are you delicate ones with wings?

Whence came you to our place of green

With beautifully eerie silence that sings

Of where you've been? What you have seen?

The poppies grew in number and sighed

Once more, as we stood by the door gazing

At their fragile presence. And, then raising

Their stems, as if to attention, all slowly died.