“I want to be here to see
the poppies open,” my friend says,
telling me why she never travels
anymore in the middle of summer.
We each hold one of the heavy buds
whose petals already ache to break
free and spread, bursting red at the seams.
The mulch is warm beneath our feet,
and sunlight shimmers pink in the
shifting leaves of the Japanese maple.
I keep hearing her words—I want
to be here—and feel something new
leaning toward the light inside me too,
some seed of need just to be rooted
right where I am for each small pleasure,
every rippling wave of sorrow.
She wraps an arm around me, and we
go inside for tea. There is nothing
to escape from, but our own desire
to escape at all.
—James Crews
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