When I First Thought of Death

 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 change used to mean light returning.

And then irises.
My cousin, 
part of her name means rainbow,
but she is a flame.
Laughs loud, lives full,
never let the dark in.
They tried to snuff her.
Still, she glows.

I think of flowers now
the way I think of names:
fragile, blooming,
brief.

And death —
a garden we’re not meant to visit,
not this young.

Not like this.