by Christine Emmert

Poppies spill their blood
in crimson splendor
over their stems
as red splashes
off our senses

making way for the black hearts

Their lives are brief
in the history of our Maytime garden.

We may forget them in the winter
when white pulls our memory
from such blinding color (and attending passion),
but they do not fail us
in their return.

In any morning hand
sits the black crow of evening
ready to bite and tear and bleed us
of our solace.

Christine Emmert is a writer, actress and director who works in all three areas as often as she can. Her poetry has been published in several anthologies and her plays are performed throughout the USA.

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