Poppies

A girl sits
In the middle of a field
Filled with flowers
Of the most beautiful hues.
She sits perfectly still -
Aware but unafraid.
She sees the storm approach,
As the poppies blow in the breeze,
But she does not move.
The flowers' scent is strong,
As strong as their passionate color
Is painfully brilliant,
And is goes to her head.
She yawns a bit,
And her eyes grow heavy.
Still she does not move
From her spot.
It is as though
She, too, has grown roots.
She sits and stares
At all and nothing,
As the clouds draw together
In an angry knot.
There is no pain,
Only the comfort
The darkness brings
To her tortured soul.
As her eyes grow heavier still,
The darkness deepens
And her world is filled,
For just a time,
With the heady, red scent
Of poppies.
It is as the last chord,
Played by nature's expert pianist,
Is fingered gently
As the world ceases to spin.
Her eyes close.
No one can save her now...
It is done.