Perhaps It Was the Poppies

Perhaps It Was the Poppies

(“I will answer their prayers before they finish praying.” Isaiah 65:24)

It was in the shape of a tree, an evergreen,
pointing beyond the skies and dreams away from
the magnetism of dirt and earth.

But there was not a guardian angel in sight. I know I knew
his name,
I thought we were personal like that. But, for now,
the name was locked deep inside my brain, and maybe a
mini stroke had hidden it forever.

It was the color of wind, a gale warning; the offshore flow
dropped heavy clouds with bullet rain driving us inside
except to make a run to the mailbox.

But there was not a ray of sun in sight. I longed for happy rays
that pierced my retinas, tanned my forehead and sent me safely
playing with my chihuahua. She doesn’t like the cold or the
precipitation. She hesitates at each drop.

It was the rhythm of fear, the heart rate, the paralysis,
the constant analysis of things that could go wrong. (Things
had gone wrong so many times before.) It was the wall that
calcified the heart and challenged anyone with soft enough
words
to tear it down from the outside. I had learned to hide; with
raw bruises where I had torn the fortress wall down before.
I looked in his eyes, told him my shame,
and years later everything changed. I sat with him for hours
when he cried about the love of his life. But I understand;
so my wall grew thicker by the year and higher each season.

Perhaps it was the sunflowers that reminded me of the power
of light.
Perhaps it was the poppies that buttered me up to install a
window, a small one, to peek at the days. Perhaps it was the
half dozen friends who never went away. But none of them
knew my shame, and I was not ready to risk it again.

So I walk where the shapes point to the sky,
I ponder inside darkness, I wait in frozen expectation,
and wish for one or the other kind of companion:

A new friend who knows nothing about me and wants to
know it all.
Or a friend who knows it all, and still craves my company.

Today I will travel between dreams and magnetic earth,
I will let the raindrops do their work to wash away the limestone
whitewash on my well-aged wall.