Poppies
I moved with her in her shadow,
always running behind,
keeping in perfect step with her mood,
trying to usher her out into daylight
so that I could gather poppies in the sun.
If I succeeded, I was invited to dance
and we'd twirl round and round and round.
I'd throw back my head
as I burst into her laughter,
weaving in and out of her displeasure
and leaping onto the pages of her good books.
I would become so dizzy with delight
that I'd topple over and slide with her,
back into her darkness.
But years smoothed the tucks and folds
of her troubled mind
and sometimes there were fresh flowers on my table.
I never knew how much she loved me
until I fell from between the pages of the book
that dropped from her dead hand.
© Christine Magee
