The red-blood poppies
Words, like freed dandelions, have blown away,
Who knows where each one has gone?
These scribbled fragments lie scattered in the corners,
And no one knows what became of them
when a heart fell silent,
and breath was cut off.
Yes—poetry… this eternal balm—
for years it could soothe no pain.
What happened, then,
that the spring of love began flowing again
from within these wounds?
The blood-red poppies of my notebook
have found life again
when two women
—she I was, and she I have become—
take each other’s hand.
They stitch the words together for you,
riding every drifting dandelion-seed
toward you…
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