Aspen Writes Poetry

When I first thought of death, I thought of the anemone,  red-mouthed, bold, a hush of fire opening on a winter hillside. It leaned into the light, not afraid yet. It said nothing:  but I heard it clearly. Like the kalaniyot in stories, crimson and defiant in the cracks of stone,  they spoke of blood and spring, of boys who never came home. A symbol, they said. Of peace. Of war. Of memory pinned to the wind. Then I thought more. I thought of the cyclamen, those bashful petals, how we’d find them shy beneath rocks, bend low to braid their blush into our hair. Now halos are not flowers, but flame,  and children who should be naming petals “he loves me, he loves me not” lie still beneath dust. Their hands will never finish the rhyme. They should be weaving crowns of narcissus, not wearing smoke. I thought of the Iris, pale as breath, rising from dry earth like something holy. My cousin bears its name,  half flower, half fire,  laughs like a song, refuses the d...

  When I First Thought of Death When I first thought of death, I thought of the poppy,  bold, red-lipped, peeping through death’s door like a child not yet afraid. It swayed. I stared. It said nothing, but I heard it. Like the poppies we were taught about at school,  bright on construction paper, pinned to coats, a symbol, they said. Of peace. Of war. Flanders Fields; men sinking into mud, letters in breast pockets, a silence that screamed. Then I thought a little more. I thought of the daisy, how we braided them into halos for our heads, giggling as the sun baked our knees. Now I see halos everywhere,  not flowers, but fire. Children who should be chasing bees, naming petals “loves me, loves me not” now dust, tiny fingers stiff beneath rubble. They should be wearing flower crowns. Not this. Then I thought of bluebells, how they arrive like a whisper,  soft at first, then all at once. A breath of hope, the way seasons announce themselves without asking. How chan...