myth for golden poppy

How could we have known solitude was an illusion?

that wealth was a building in the distance?

then flowers became fire

burning away the chain of dreams that encircled our wrists.

How do we tell a story of a plant that has been given strength by the sun to burnish the mountains

to stop our tongues, to grip our hands and pause our feet, to gild our bodies so lovely it is that it is also cruel, smothering us in gold so that we might only dream of writing our love.

What is there not to say about a plant that is the cousin of the sun?

The sun and every kin it has needs complete attention.

We exhaust ourselves with admiration, the endless flattery leaves our mouths dry and our bodies weak.

Forgive us, Sun, you have the power to blind us, to make us run in circles in confounding freedom;

may we, by your will, find purpose in the geometry you impose so that we might be full of grace despite our limits.