Morning gathers low in its arms. Barefoot, she drifts where light is born,
soft poppies a quiet flame she passes through.
The morning held its breath
and I walked between the blossoms—
lanterns, where silence bloomed.
Each petal wore a generous light,
each spark a whisper of becoming.
I did not gather the flowers;
they gathered me.
Not harvest, nor altar: simply witness, muscle, skin—
and that is enough.
by Emily M. Foster
From The Book of Light · see also
“Among the Poppies”