Not to have...
Not to have but to be
The black heart of the poppy
O to lie there as a seed.
To become the beloved
As the world ends, to enter
the last note of its music.
---Denise.
Like poppy and memory, said the poet. As if forgetfulness was a kind of death. A day of remembrance. Of the missing. Of our own lives that have fallen away, that never were. White, silent, or black, mournful. Red. Then everything was red.
Do you forgive me these November days?
--Anna.
2 comments:
i wish i had known this poem back then when i posted my poppies.
those were stunning pictures, roxana.
(he says numbly and in fear!). joking, joking :-)))
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