In the fields

the poppies bloody
the sky

bruised by
the leftover

crumbs of a rain storm.
My hair rambles

through the yelling-wet

grass blades
and odors tumble

down my temples,
staining thoughts

that unfasten the moors
holding

me to the ground,

still.
In the fields

the poppies smear
the sky

blazed by
the slightly pursed lips

of a leftover rain storm.
&

My hair rambles

through the yelling-wet

grass blades.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

________________

Photo: Doreen Dee