The morning sun dyes the flowing winds a flaming orange

My feet are dyed as well as I swing

The yellow rope wanes and cranes as I shepherd the tire swing back and forth

Orange kisses grace my feet like soft orange clouds

The wind blows through my hair and the earth is forgotten

The scent of neighboring lilacs grace the nose

The tire swing nose dives to the earth … but never touches

The poppies wave in the wind as I rise above them again

And they kiss my feet as I return

The poppies are waving goodbye and kissing hello over and over again

As I swing on the tire swing

Paw07: This was a portrait poem I wrote last year … it’s a memory of mine when I was growing up. My mother had this huge patch of poppies flowers that were near the tire swing … the tire swing is gone now, but the poppies still grow in the same place as they did when I was a child. That memory makes me sad for some reason.