Plath's poppies bloom
In days of gloom,
From July through October.
The scarlet florets burn like ember,
And line up before tombstones 
And hallucinatory portals.
Some look up to the sky, their eventual abode,
And some like a skirt, tent their petals. 
A sprightly bird's staccato trills 
Fragment further when hit by perils
That tag along with the siren of the ambulance
Carting a lady whose red heart blooms like poppy florets 
Through her coat, so astoundingly,
When she sleeps and bleeds.
Gone too soon 
The ruby red pulse,
Gone too soon 
A stream of wonder whose ripples
Can still be felt today,
In words of melancholy, longing and woe,
And ashes that the little red flames 
Leave along artistic roads. 
I should let you know 
That the carbon monoxide escaped your windows ages ago, 
And that the bell jar is currently hibernating in its safe space,
Having cured itself of its illness.
Maybe you could come back now 
With streams of words flowing down
Your arms,
Because the little poppies no more do any harm.

Shifa