The poppies in my garden grow with tissue paper arms
Among the weeds they flourish ever bright and without scent
Swaying in the nighttime breeze with somewhat seductive charms,
( Such casual beauty, I query where that fragrance went.)
Each petal appearing etched seeming darker at the rim,
A silken floss, I think it’s spun upon a fairy loom.
When every other blossom nods its head in evening’s dim
I find it odd that poppies never sleep or fold their bloom.
The poppy is a special gift full of artful design
Crafted much like the angel’s wings fluttering as they fly,
Woven and wrought by care and love with pageant in each line
Grafted by some magic skill from God’s greenhouse in the sky.
Claire V. Bogdanos 