Poppies
entire species
come and go without a tomb,
tracking cordilleras
that shrink into feeble moraines.
supernovas paint millennia of sky,
and yet bullets from outer space
--meteoric in brief bright blaze--
never silence the planet’s breath.
And poppies,
Oh the poppies,
those eager orange-yellow globes,
eyes of molten dinosaurs,
opened for a moment
to guzzle down millions of missing years--
yet frozen in all that,
even as they burn from a friction of eons.
millions of years,
yes,
compressed into a brilliant fresh consciousness.
and then it simply explodes--
blooms.
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