Look. The poppies
they are at it again
exploding on the
hills with their deep
yellow flames and
supple hearts.

The tender green pines
the red manzanita
the wild iris, low and steady-
they all breathe the
secrets of the dark soil
from where the poppies came.

And they bend slightly to praise
the golden parachutes
who in turn pour themselves
joyfully, opening
without restraint up and
toward the sun.

As the black bellied poppies
teach with tender care
how to close up shop
daily, to forget what
needs forgetting.

How not to shrink
from these sanguine
spring hills
at the first sign of
happiness.

Posted by kind permission of Dale Biron.