A Story of Poppies

Poppies were always golden,

Or so I thought,

And they came in the Spring

When they grew everywhere

Like weeds—

But I was a California girl

And only four years old.

Then one November day

My Gram and my Mom

Brought poppies home

From shopping downtown—

Flimsy paper poppies

Poppies that were red.

No one ever explained

Why the flowers had to be red.

I was told it was tradition

Like putting our flag on the porch

For November 11, Armistice Day.

When I was five

I met the poppy makers

Or sellers or both.

These were usually men

Who were missing

Pieces of themselves:

A hand, an arm,

A leg or two, an eye.

Occasionally there were women, too,

On the corners, mid-block,

All holding flowers to sell.

And everywhere around,

Inside stores,

Along the sidewalk,

On the bus—

A spot of red

Showed on peoples’ clothing:

On a lapel or pocket,

On blouse or jacket,

No matter if the color clashed.

Many years later,

I learned the answer

When I saw the battlefields

Of World War One

And the grave sites there

Where poppies bloomed–

Red poppies,

Everywhere…red poppies.