Fresh Poppies
Clouds, covered in silent white,
rise before dawn's chill,
a moment of clarity pops
before the day sets sail.
Sea slugs meander the tide pools
wait it out under shadowed rocks.
Wet sandals gather shore moss —
notions that slip away as easily as
the tide. Sun sails high, then cascades
amber light — shadows merge
with opioid dusk masking
the moonlight that pirouettes in darkness.
The color of purple tastes sour with grief-
seized tears flowing hushed with brushed thorns.
Toads beached in tall grass, croak fat lips —
a cherry-red sound painted with pain.
I am the shore, the color, the taste of toad
the waiting has not yet happened.
By Annette Gagliardi
Published on Substantially Unlimited on August 29, 2022