These orange blooms cover hillsides with vibrancy
bent askew by autumn wind
they emerge rust color, like leaves in autumn
they are not a drug, no poisonous lunacy
they’re just the natural mess that wept the sun
their begging curtains envoy below the eaves
for a bee they are prosperity’s sheaves
What a wallop of impractical weeds
like all bibliophiles of success
books you can’t renew but poppy reseeds
predestination’s floral comfort’s tress
workaholics flag eventually
then vivify bare fields or medians
memory wept out unsurpassably
poorest altruists, the kinds without friends
they are so prolific, their lives attenuate
nourishing art into their own ruinous poverty
their image seen through eternity