Meadow

The plain was still frozen here and there: like a single sheet of mirror that has suddenly cracked. The plain was still frozen when suddenly the hidden stems poured out, the bashful stems lined up, in order or out of order, points full of life. The ice broke, in the footprints of the ice grew flames that you call magic poppies: purple, the color of birth, in unrepeatable dawns, eternal, unrepeatable. With poppies the color of each day’s sunrise yellow and violet and blue button flowers appeared, they danced with all the tall green stems in the enchanted meadows. And two bodies – I, you – we wove together our hearts with long, restless breaths in the shelter of the eternal poppies...