She never spread her secrets
but kept them locked up,
an ornamental pod,
sleeping through the seasons.
She could’ve numbed them all,
a tiny incision oozing relief
feeding them through the winter
with a steady, icy drip.
Instead, fingers dangle into nothingness
like the chubby legs of toddlers
flailing flabby at the local lake,
she curled grayish-green,
Patiently shriveling,
swallowed her own
glaucous seeds
and died.
Yard Sale of Thoughts 
Wow! You never cease to amaze me with your writing! I love reading your work. So talented and once again, well done!
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Oh this is so sad!
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Yes, it is about morphine, the poppy’s gift/but also thief. It soothes and steals at the same time.
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sad.
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Yes, I suppose it is. About morphine and the ending of things.
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You’ve set the bar high again K. Had to look up glaucous. Wonderfully appropriate word.
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Thank you, Hobbo. Discovered this word while writing this one, don’t know how it hadn’t made my vocabulary lists in school.
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Yes, it’s a lovely word. Always good to increase our vocabulary.
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Funny that when I read this, I felt surrounded by the scent of mould and dust.
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Thank you, Misky; that delicate about to crumble state.. I hope I captured it at least a bit.
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You certainly did that.
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