I am the weed in my father’s precious garden
Barbed and thistled,
Hard, gray and soiled
Sucking the earth dry beneath me.
Surrounding me
poppies, those simple four-petaled
glorious ephemeral blooms
suspended on slender fuzzy stems
like paper bells wafting in the wind
wild yet wise
altering my existence with their
golden hue and sensuous warmth
bathing me in tender brilliance
engulfing the very air
until I am polished, soft and smooth.
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