The Lady and Her Poppies

The Lady and Her Poppies

The first flower she ever loved was the poppy,

Deep red, almost wicked, much like herself.

Dark red, like her beautifully long, curling hair,

And a dress she wore in that very same shade.

She was mystical, much like the poppy,

A tale waiting to be told, exciting yet dark.

She picked the poppy heads in the park,

And loved planting their seeds in her own garden.

Year after year, such beauty grew wild and free,

The flowers were much like her, belonging to no one.

No one to keep them, no one to tame them,

Free to be themselves, like the deep red poppy,

The very flowers she grew from her own seeds.

She too was wild and alone, and liked her life,

Her dark eyes gave no clue to who she really was.

Like an unknown oil painting, the lady was unique,

Living behind a soft red veil,

That gently moved and breathed in the wind.

The poppy, her soulmate, the keeper of secrets,

Sees all, says nothing, and that is how they like it.

Each day a mystical journey, deep within their own being,

The poppy and the lady in a mysterious red world.

Perhaps they both knew the secret of growing wild,

Neither needing another to make them whole.