tell me nothing
of six months past.
Tunneling through
Tear washed clouds
I find poppies.
Georgia O’Keefe poppies
swirled, blended, etched
with red hot crimson cries,
and blazing maize memory.
Like the violent stillness
of a sunset you loved.
God never answers the whys,
instead He paints our voids.
I ask again in April
How many sunsets are there
for me?
I walk the sand,
checking for shadows
to stroke my hand.
Pelicans gracing the wind current
outlined across purple stripes,
almost as an anchor.
They suddenly smash into
crystal calms of their life food.
God never answers the whys,
He wades through them, with us.
Again, in May
I remember.
Plunging into morning blackness
my life’s equilibrium tipped
into dead end darkness.
Silent sunrise scribbling
crayons of color
into my mind’s window,
with a calliope of songbirds.
Still. Like Poppies.
God’s a lot bigger
than why.
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