
The Poppy
Oh, angel on high, your rapturous cry echoes wordlessly on the breeze,
and brings me to my knees.
For nature is my church, the blue vault of the sky, my temple, and the dark rich earth beneath my fingertips, my holy book.
The crook of your stem, the float of your flounce, your filmy white petals, light as feathers, spark indescribable joy in me,
and a spiral of delight takes flight from my toes to who knows where, when it leaves my body,
intersecting, connecting with the grid of reality which shifts beneath my feet,
warping and dancing in a synchronous beat, with the ephemeral beauty
of the poppy.

Dedicated to the Matilija Poppy, queen of the native California Poppies….
Erika Burkhalter 2019
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Photos and poem ©Erika Burkhalter. All rights reserved.






