The Poppy Flower
The Poppy Flower
Delicate and soft, the most beautiful poppy flower stands before me. Gently swaying in the breeze, her tender face gleaming up toward the sun.
Warm dew settles at my bare feet, fresh grass tickles my toes. Birds brightly chirp in the morning, but all I notice is this poppy flower. How gentle she is, and how vibrant. How hard and black the pin of the stigma in contrast to the graceful petals. Is it possible that such an unforgiving center lives within this mild flower?
I do not take my eyes off this entrancing plant as I scratch the tickling grass off my ankles.
I wonder, where are her friends?
Is it that her beauty is so radiant that all other poppies disappeared out of jealousy? If I were a poppy, I would certainly leave. Any poppy is insufferably disappointing compared with her.
Maybe she deserves a name, I think, as I scratch the grass that relentlessly tickles my knee. Scarlett seems to fit her, because of her ruby red color. No, that seems too boastful of a name. She needs something more modest.
Anastasia means full of grace. She is certainly full of grace, but she is much more than simply “grace.” I remember a name I saw in The New Yorker back home. Aurelia or something of that sort. It means “golden” in Latin. Yes, she is certainly my sun, but she is red in color, not gold. Gold in heart maybe, but red in color. No, Aurelia is not the name for her.
My eyes still strongly fixed on my poppy, I scratch the obnoxiously persistent grass ticking my lower thigh. Soon it will reach my shorts, and I won’t have to think about it anymore. Soon, the grass will grow to my upper thigh and it will not be an issue anymore. Then, I can fully focus on my poppy.
The two of us stand here. We stare at each other.
Time passes so quickly with my poppy, I hardly recognize that the birds have long stopped their chirping. The grass now reaches my stomach. I stand on my tiptoes in order to not lose sight of my poppy.
A violent itch has been bothering my shoulders, but I have been ignoring it for so long. What would happen if I reach to itch my shoulder, and with that motion, my head moves and I lose sight of my poppy? What if when my head turns, I lose sight of my poppy, and I never find her again?
I had been ignoring the violent itch on my shoulder, but now it is too much to bear. I scratch the gentlest bit, in order to not shake my head around and lose sight of my poppy. I feel skin come off with my scratch, though I hardly think about it. I must have a sunburn, I think. Nothing to worry about. Nothing more important than my poppy.
Now, the grass reaches my chest and I can no longer stand on tiptoes to see. Slowly, I part the grass with my chipping hands. I kneel down to join her. I am happy to see that my arms seem to be the same beautiful color as her rare petals: bright ruby red. My knees sink into the soft soil. My foot cramps, but I dare not move for fear of losing sight of my poppy. What would happen if I go to move my foot, and with that motion, my head moves so that I lose sight of my poppy? What if when my head turns, I lose sight of my poppy, and I never find her again?
My foot cramp can sit for some time more.
While I feel tired and weak, she still looks so strong and dazzling. I wonder why nobody else ever comes to this field. If I were them, I would certainly come to this field. I would come and never leave, just so I could look at my poppy.
No, better not think like that. If someone else comes to this field, I might have to share my poppy with them. No, better not think like that.
The sun does burn down awfully hot. My mouth does feel awfully dry. I wonder where I might get water? No, I mustn’t. Go somewhere else? To get water? Without your poppy? What silly speculation! My thirst can wait. Nothing to worry about. Nothing more important than my poppy.
My mouth does feel awfully dry. My stomach does feel awfully empty.
I think to myself: I wonder where I might get a little food? No, what a thought! Go somewhere else? To get food? Without your poppy? What silly speculation! My hunger can wait. Nothing to worry about. Nothing more important than my poppy.
Nothing more important than my poppy.
I fall to my elbows as the grass wraps its arms around me. Nothing more important than my poppy.
My head falls, but I carefully keep my eyes on my poppy. Nothing more important than my poppy.
I continue to think this as my eyes slowly close, the image of the most beautiful poppy flower still standing before me. Gently swaying in the wind, her soft face gleaming up toward the sun.
Nothing more important than my poppy.
The Voice
September 2024
A Letter for Everyone on YWP – One Last Time
Dear YWP, The first time I wrote you a letter I was 13. The second, 15. I'm 18 now; how time flies, my lovely people. And this is the last letter. My name is Stargirl – to you on YWP. To everyone else...
Sweater of Me
Songs of my father’s belly laughter flow through the eye of the needle and around the loom with each abdominal contraction. It reminds me of home. Snip I miss it. A downpour soaks fuzzy yarn. The sc...
Fragments of Heartbreak in Paris
This morning I watched as someone I love broke their heart. Over and over, I watched them wander through the secret streets of Paris, clumsily holding their heart in their hands. It wasn't their fault...
Somewhere
You spend most of your childhood wanting to grow up. You dream of all the things you'll do, the people you'll meet, the freedom of a life where you are the captain of your own ship. Only to be met wit...
What We Give (Who We Are)
to tell a story is to give life — to tell a story is to reward the legacy of all those who are precedents, the tales as old as time that have been lived and passed down for millenn...
The Ocean
The Ocean is a wild thing. She rises and falls, crashes and swells. Out she calls, luring lonely souls to her watery depths and sand strewn beaches. Some fear her, some love her, and some have never s...
My Letter to the World
My name is Amelia. I am 17 years old And I am afraid for my future. I am tired of old men Deciding how I will live, Determining the world in which I will raise my children. My own parents have cried...
What Kamala Harris Is Doing Right
It's only been about four weeks since President Joe Biden announced he would end his reelection campaign, and endorsed Vice President Kamala Harris for President. In the week following the endorsement...
Stars
Four buzzes Wake me up, Loud in the quiet Dark. A seconds-long debate In my head Before I jump from my bunk bed Because who needs a ladder And why act thirteen When you could act seven? I crouch in ...
Trippin'
Down the Interstate, Stuffed in an SUV, A perfect suburban one. You shake your knees. Mom tells you to stop shaking. It’s 10 a.m., yet the brands of Frito-Lay have been selfishly consumed. Mom’s be...
Thinking About You
I never thought about you in the daytime When the sun spread like melted butter over the dwindling Blueberry bushes. I’d scavenge with them For the tiniest hint of The sour-sweet fruit, my shirt Like ...
The Poppy Flower
Delicate and soft, the most beautiful poppy flower stands before me. Gently swaying in the breeze, her tender face gleaming up toward the sun. Warm dew settles at my bare feet, fresh grass tickles my ...
A Letter To My Old Self
Don’t tell someone you’re fine When you know it’s all a lie Don’t be afraid to tell them the truth When they make you cry It’s okay to be upset When things don’t turn out right But always remember Th...
Counting Flowers
I rang the doorbell to your heart, and throughout your house it rang, a bouquet of astilbes in one hand and in the other a pink dove. I carved it of cherry wood just for you, my future and my love.Whe...
Cradling a Glint of Inspiration
Inspiration Is such a delicate thing, Such an intricate dance Between emotions and ideas, A soft sparkle That flashes when you least expect it, That sometimes you can only see When you squint and will...
A Frigid Embrace
With an icy heart, I watch her play her part, Casting a spell on the land. To many, she takes everything grand. With the dark blanket of clouds above, Many hate what I’ve grown to love. She dances wit...
Home
When I set foot on the shadow of my idea-turned-choice, I realized that I had willed something I wasn't able to believe into something I could no longer refrain from knowing.It was then that I smelled...
I'm From the Land of Smiles
I'm from the Land of Smiles, the beautiful country with temples and palaces where monks and royalty live. I'm from a mind of great creativity and words, and a mind of artistry and language. I'm from a...