the poppy

Curled under like a baby in womb, 
Not yet ready, 
Lily-livered before the throne.

’Ventually driving through the dirt 
Upward, microphone in hand, 
Ready to play a somethin’ ripe.

Inflorescence, seeds in bosom, 
On to play the fiddle with 
That fragrant daring note.

Dried up like a tear leaf, 
Thirsting for more, early age without 
The daily ritual of wetting.

Seeds laid for tilling, an inheritance 
advancing onward ho! 
Yielded by ladies in waiting.

The aforementioned whisper 
In the dark waiting for dawn 
To breathe a newly, constant beaut



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