In the new grain fields of the modern
intensive agricultural of Austria and Hungary,
red poppies still surface: waves and pools,
streams and puddles, of bright poppie color,
undefeatable, bold against the green and gold,
just as they always have, time out of time…
as though the earth is bleeding for the gentle touch
of the old ways: the horse plow
and the scythes and sheaves of harvest…
for the absent birds, the hare and roe,
pushed to the edges by these
monocultured, manicured factories of grain,
factories of gain.
And there is a part of me
(the better part I think)
that bleeds with the poppies.