Of Poppies and Memorials

She bent her head low

Over her hand

Kissing the small red flower

Wrapped gently around her finger.

x

The small, fabric poppy,

So red, so soft,

She knew was not real,

Could not replace the real.

x

But another look

Brought her to think

And to wonder

What was really reality.

x

This red poppy

Was real in the sense

That it was right there,

Visible in front of her.

x

But the soft fabric

Proved that it was not real

In the sense of living,

It had no fragrance, no life.

x

She realized this flower,

Wrapped gently around her finger,

As she kissed it softly,

Was but a tribute to the life before it.

x

She lifted her head

And looked at the white marble

Engraved with a name and a cross

As she knelt on the grass.

x

In this season, there were no real poppies.