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The Sound Of Red Poppies
Bette Mioduski

Seemingly the count went on,
the sight went on as long;
five hundred boots and counting.

An old woman threw
red seeds toward winter winds;
taps engulfed the square;
and April poppies sprung about
the ghost of every empty boot.



The boots sang
a tale in melodies;
a newborn's cry;
passions never again;
a thought of crackling
chips on paper plates.

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