Poppy

Poppy by Michael R. Burch “It is lonely to be born.” – Dannie Abse, “The Second Coming” It is lonely to be born between the intimate ears of corn . . . the sunlit, flooded, shellshocked rows. The scarecrow flutters, listens, knows . . . Pale butterflies in staggering flight ascend the gauntlet winds and light before the scything harvester. The winsome buds of cornflowers prepare themselves to be airborne, and it is lonely to be shorn, decapitate, of eager life so early in love’s blinding maze of silks and tassels, goldened days when life’s renewed, gone underground. Sad confidante of worm and mound, how little stands to be regained of what is left. A tiny cleft now marks your birth, your reddening among the amber waves. O, sing! Another waits to be reborn among bent thistle, down and thorn. A hoofprint’s cleft, a ram’s curved horn curled inward, turned against the heart, a spoor like infamy. Depart. You came too late, the signs are clear: whose world this is, now watches, near. There is no opiate for the heart. Originally published by Borderless Journal *** Virginal by Michael R. Burch For an hour every wildflower beseeches her, "To thy breast, Elizabeth." But she is mine; her lips divine and her breasts and hair are mine alone. Let the wildflowers moan. *** If Love Were Infinite by Michael R. Burch If love were infinite, how I would pity our lives, which through long years’ exactitude might seem a pleasant blur—one interlude without prequel or sequel—wanly pretty, the gentlest flame the heart might bring to bear to tepid hearts too sure of love to flare. If love were infinite, why would I linger caressing your fine hair, lost in the thought each auburn strand must shrivel with this finger, and so in thrall to time be gently brought to final realization: love, amazing, must leave us ash for all our fiery blazing. If flesh’s heat once led me straight to you, love’s arrow’s burning mark must pierce me through. Keywords/Tags: birth, light, love, love hurts, flight, flying, life, heart