Poppies by the Sea
Orangey-red prayer flags of the past –
they are opium –
a secret incense.
They are a doorway to everything –
from a small room
to an endless blue seascape.
They launch all the people
that you have encountered –
the living and the dead.
They are the raw emotions
housed in your always changing body
unfurling now like a beautiful sail.
They all well up and churn on the waves.
They give visions of a solitary hosta plant
that made you think of the venerable Bede.
They are those curvy-stemmed flowers that grew
beside the red wagon you had as a child.
They gesture nervously
toward a pod of blue whales in the distance
as you draw
closer and closer to the shore
to the crashing surf
to the lighthouse.
Then back to the world.