Icelandic Poppy

The bonfire of its wide bloom
is almost terrifying were it not so sweet,
a welcome which shatters my morning
reveries with a wondrous orange bell
freighted in from the regions of blue
ice your eyes now wander in,
dead brother.

Something in the way you
photographed it swathes me
in wonder; there is nothing
to hold me back from falling naked
into its billowy orange folds,
my face wet with sweet
baptisimal dew.

Staring deep into the picture
my mind is succored and
nourished and begun anew
in one flower's fire rapture,
all thirst watered,
the heart quenched,

requited at last in
the floating garden you left behind,
the one I tend and walk
and wonder in here,
grateful to go in bloom.

(note: the flower mentioned in this poem starts the next post below.)