Poppies

In open field, the poppies tall,

Wake from sleep so deep, to fly;

Their paper petals, flushed, enthrall,

Flat out, they flout their blooms, unshy.

The winds will blow, red men will fall,

Blood-tears shed—- bled into sky;

Tossed to heaven, once-silenced spirits all,

With no word ever heard, they cry.

Kat Mortensen©2010

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