Poppies in October
Even the sun-clouds this morning cannot manage such skirts. Nor the women in the ambulance, whose red heart blooms through her coat so astoundingly
A gift, a love gift
Utterly unasked for
By a sky
Parely and flamily, Igniting its carbon monoxydes, by eyes, dulled to a halt under bowlers.
O my God, what am I
That these late mouths should cry open
In a forest of frost, in a dawn of cornflowers.
Because you loved the poetry of Sylvia Plath.
Puppies are my favorite flowers.
But I prefered you.
Your light will still glow in my heart.
Somewhere in Canada.
Marie-Eve Lévesque
23/03/2023
