Poppy Pods

I pretend no egalitarian aspirations when it comes to blooms. Poppies, nonpareil, are simply sublime. Like the breath of a lover’s kiss, delicate but transformational. Words fall short. And then there are poppy pods…

I’m as smitten with the poppy pods as the blooms. Once the papery petals yield to the wind or gravity, a handsome hull plump with poppy seeds remains. Ample. Memorial. Geometric. (Source: Poppy Poems)

Poppy pods are poems, don’t you think. When still green on earth bound stems, and later when life has dried up leaving brown husks to rattle in the breeze.

Poppy Pods Poem

While gathering poems
among the poppies,
fluttery fresh and
irresistibly seductive,
I found a pair of pods
swollen with seed
pleating, puckering
as if whistling
some sibilant song
of midsummer passion,
of August into autumn
what-ifs and why-nots.

A bit esoteric, maybe. And not quite complete. But I’m pleased with this first foray. Where from here?