Morning Martyrs

Their fiery blossoms swayed against the sky In breezy weather and Mama and I played games, describing how the long, gold-tipped pistils wrote, on air, sweeping pollen poems. No eye that saw could help but read. Their blooms were red against the green, And in the early morning wet we deemed We saw the blood of homegrown heroes, Who died for duty, deftly limned --- Dreams to occupy two minds That loved the moves, in wind, Of red hibiscus past their primes.