Oriental Red Poppy

Each morning at least one

new - larger than two open hands

held together: candlewick blacks,

gold flicker at center,

crimson more intense than a name.

Last night the green calyxes

were clenched, no sign

which would undo, so I got up before dawn

and went out wrapped in patchwork.

With no sound, a loose seam let go

of one crepe corolla. A tremor,

the red unwrinkling of silk,

and the whole unfolded.

The small effort of an early rising

had turned to dazzlement in the sun,

a part of me that needs to witness

infused with indelible blacks

and reds - all the vibrancy

that could be dreamed out of morning.

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