Red at its most essential
breeding a pulse in
its process of growth,
brushing our being
in its passing.
. . . . .
I sing the Poppy! The frail snowy weed!
The flower of Mercy! that within its heart
Doth keep “a drop serene” for human need,
A drowsy balm for every bitter smart.
For happy hours the Rose will idly blow
The Poppy
hath a charm for pain and woe.
– Mary A. Barr
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