requiem for my dreamflowers
i will not, i will not hate him for this.
my brother is running a mower over
what remains of the high grass, the jungle behind the house.
i bring him tea; he thanks me.
i will not, i will not hate him for this.
does he see my sullenness?
does he guess its cause?
the tall purple poppies
which grew wildly through the paving,
three, four feet in their glory
are no more.
the mower claimed them all in its path,
my dreamflowers decapitated.
here and there lie fallen drops of petal...
the survivors cower by the fences.
i will not, i will not hate him for this.
he didn't know i loved them.
and if he did, he would dismiss it
just like his father before him.
it's patio, it's not meant for weeds.
i will not, i will not hate him for this.
perhaps when the world was made it was decided:
pavings and stones are for the sensible and sane;
poppies are only for dreamers.