November Poppies
Red and green and death and dream
The great thing is not having a mind. Feelings: oh, I have those; they govern me. I have a lord in heaven called the sun, and open for him, showing him the fire of my own heart, fire like his presence.
— from “The Red Poppy” by Louise Glück, first appearing in her 1992 volume The Wild Iris.
Solitary I stand at the quiet edge of a field painted with the blood of November poppies The shock of silent scarlet beneath the cloud-soft sky is beautiful and devastating "Lest we forget"— the hallowed invocation is wreathed in red poppy Lest we forget the horrors of war Lest we forget that it is our duty to be a shield for what is right and just in this world We have forgotten, I call out into the empty miles of gentle wind and faraway death-sleep We have forgotten, I whisper to the plain of solemn red remembering The currency of our imagined liberty was won with the blood of sacred Life Now we spend it thoughtlessly and reserve freedom for ourselves as though it were a finite resource unfit for sharing Alas, our lives are a series of comfortable conveniences the price of which we refuse to acknowledge I want to burn all of the money quietly discard the poison ash and remake everything in the image of all that is good and green and holy I am sorry that we have forgotten I am sorry that we have forgotten But the wind and the poppies and the pale sun cannot offer their forgiveness Perhaps they would not extend us such grace, even if they could
