Patricia’s Purple Poppies

Patricia’s purple poppies,

standing tall,

standing sure.

Never floppy,

never false,

just beauty… pure.

I catch them—

as I turn the bend.

My jaunty friend trotting ahead,

morning light,

earlybird flight…

and suddenly—

there they are again.

This is my crying time.

Quiet time.

Safe from the eyes of strangers.

When sorrow drops heavy,

they steady me—

lifting the weight,

like wings.

Petals like prayers.

Color that cares.

Patricia’s purple poppies

put on their show…

and somehow—

I rise with them.

Because hope doesn’t holler.

It waits,

in a wild patch of color.

Rooted.

Radiant.

Resilient. 

—

Patricia’s purple poppies—

once standing tall,

standing sure.

Never floppy,

never false,

just beauty… pure.

But now—

Their petals have fallen.

The show is over,

the color gone.

I round the bend,

my jaunty friend trotting ahead,

morning light,

earlybird flight…

and still I search—

for where they were.

This is my crying time.

Quiet time.

Safe from the eyes of strangers.

When sorrow drops heavy,

the silence steadies me—

teaching that even bright things

must bow.

Empty stems,

weathered crowns.

The ground is littered

with what was.

Yet still—

I rise with them.

Because hope doesn’t holler.

It waits,

beneath the soil,

sleeping but steady.

Patricia’s purple poppies—

they’ll stand again:

Rooted.

Radiant.

Resilient.