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Poppies By Lynn Tudor Deming The fields lie golden-green in haze; but up close, arson blazes in the wheat; tiny scorchings thrust their hot stain against my eye. Hours later I close my eyes, and suddenly, they return; they burn in clusters unflinching under my eyelids, flaring up unbidden in their exact fire. Days later, along dirt furrows, strays flutter in the stalks. Still I remember how the poppies came back, their imperishable burn rising up, that rash of scarlet sprung from the cortical bed.
© Copyright 2004, Lynn Tudor Deming, All Rights Reserved |
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Document last modified on: 03/06/2005