POPPIES
by Carl Sandburg
SHE loves blood-red poppies for a garden to walk in.
In a loose white gown she walks
and a new child tugs at cords in her body.
Her head to the west at evening when the dew is creeping,
A shudder of gladness runs in her bones and torsal fiber:
She loves blood-red poppies for a garden to walk in.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I became enamored
By the ghost of Carl Sandburg
It was mid June
The intoxicating breeze of
Sweetgrass swirled around me
I walked through bamboo forest
Blooming gardens and
Pastures with goats
Nuzzled by their young
It was full of all the simple
Beauty of life
My feet fell humbly
On the ground below me
As I honored the wonder
That surrounded me
I relished in it
Like a child seeing
For the very first time...
~Amber Comber
