Issue Forty-Four - Summer 2024

One Morning

By Linda Conroy

In rough gravel
beneath a maple drape
beside a chance thistle
between the fallen
cones of pine
an orange poppy
its stem so fragile
barely wider
than a thread
drowses, sways.
Light wind licks
its four translucent petals,
in a muslin dress.

This glow of beauty
may quickly
turn its back
as one petal falls
is swept off
by an errant breeze.
Others tremble, sensing
that the color splash
may vanish
any moment
in these days
of doubt
of raw uncertainty.

Copyright 2024 Conroy