poppies in October

by Irene

You fed me a rose plum.

It was windy, and no one was shovelling snow.

We drifted into old letters
in a rattan basket
containing loss.

Wrapped in a burgundy sweater, my bracelet caught
the stitch of the yarn,
which I disengaged with
the thread coming loose.

It was an unexpected stop
in the wilderness.

We depended on thoughts of friendship
and the kindness of brief
strangers, calling out our names,
we’ll remember for
a lifetime.

The poem hasn’t yet
been born, like a bed of crimson poppies
in October, sprung from a clutch of
seeds; the world still asleep.

Process notes: Beatific words from Marianne for The Sunday Whirl. Don’t ask me why, but there is a vague reference to Sylvia Plath’s poem, “Poppies in October”. Probably because it is the current poetry book in my handbag. I find much of Plath’s lines opaque as hell. Perchance you’ll find my lines opaque as well, murmuring disapproval under your breath. Hey, it’s my first poem in 2012. Happy dance.