Poppies

I've been debating on posting poetry. Yes? No? Will anyone even read it? My decision is "Yeah, why not?" So, here's a poem that I wrote six or so years ago. "Tell the truth, but tell it slant." - Emily Dickinson


Poppies

Father sits on the front porch,
on the edge where
sun hits flaked cement
warm to his slippered toes
and iced tea. Mild. No sugar.
No lemon.
Finches and sparrows fly
around his cracked plastic birdfeeder,
Grosbeaks and red-breasted somethings
peck at the contents, spitting
and breaking black seeds.
Shells litter the grass.
I watch father’s eyes droop,
my spade cutting into earth,
halved worms tossed
with dandelions and worn red poppies.
My fingers dig up roots
while sheets overhead curl
in beams of yellow sun.
The clothesline strung.
On the edge.