The Opium Poppy

There is a poppy in the garden
the first I've seen in years.
Ten years ago they left . . .
were they mourning for my love?
the purple and the red, black
stamens as her hair tall and slim.
She loved them as her own,
demanding, intoxicant, as she,
One, just one is here,
beneath the Wellingtonia,
hanging blooms tight closed.
Will they be red or purple?
The stamens will be black
of that I'm sure . . . .
as were her eyes and hair.
It called the other night
I did not see, seldom go that far
thought they'd never return.
She lies close by the rose we bred.
Another love, roses and the poppy.
not the red of Flanders Field,
memories here are purple,
narcotic dreams, memories,
of years I cannot forget,
gathering round when alone.
to cause me sleep and comfort.