The Gilded Poppy

A poppy knows not what she dreams,

She knows not what her fate will be.

Merely, she exists, billowing along the breeze.

At least, that is the fate of most poppies...

But not for one, not for one lone, crimson, poppy.

 

This poppy had no name,

No sense of self, really

But she had a dream

A grand dream,

One very large for one so small

 

She dreamed of being useful, 

A dream of having meaning in a life so tiny

She dreamed of being loved, of being cherished

To be held dear, by a beloved, or a child

To be a momento, a symbol of something far greater than herself.

 

As she swept alone in her field

As she lay, dreaming and wishing

A mortal came along and plucked her up

Fluffed her petals and carted her off

Had her dreams ended, she thought, or had they begun

 

Far was she carried, 

Gently was she totted,

Oft she was fluffed,

Little did she know,

What was in store.

 

Through a mighty veil she was carried,

Gently was she laid on the ground,

Amongst other poppies, she found herself

The mortal spoke, but she had no ears to hear

The mortal gestured, but she had no eyes to see

 

She lay there, for how long she was unsure

As poppies do not measure time like mortals do

Amongst others of her kind, she was happy

But she was worried, for was this the end of her existence?

She lay there, feeling things no other poppy had ever felt.

 

At once she was lifted in the air,

A mighty being holding her, 

As gently as the mortal had,

Great words were spoken, 

The poppy slept once more.

 

In a sudden blast, she awoke.

New life had she been given, a purpose, finally.

Each day she changed shape, 

Each new moon, a new form.

To be held dear by a Beloved,

This was her purpose.