From the Bones of the Dead

The poppies grow where the bodies lie. They grow out of their skulls; Out of bullet holes and discarded limbs— Anything is their home. And in this brutal massacre, A young poppy seed finds solace: Somewhere to grow old. The poppies reach upward, Each like a spindly, quivering finger Pointing to the heavens— Come rain; come shine. They are an unwavering beauty On such a deadened and weary land: Flattened and trampled by the lost souls, Still searching for their justice And for their lives back.