Wild Poppies

It is one of those afternoons where the air hangs stiff and the leaves on the trees look like a 'monet' painting. I step into this surreal world, as the only moving part. The cemetery rows are all nice and neat; some headstones are flat and plain, while the mausoleums have ornate carvings of stone flowers that have ceased to color the landscape.

Every day at the same time I walk my Doberman through the long tree columned entrance that divides into four sections, like a weather vane pointing to some unknown destination that could change without notice. Around the edges of each sector are the graves of military men and women: as ifkeeping watch over some unseen battle. Fields of red.

My favorite grave, if there is such a thing, is the one of a little girl, who lived only three years. A brightly colored pinwheel usually spins in the wind, but today it is still. I say a prayer and linger there for a moment, as always: blue skies and a big yellow sun, I am the stick figure in the painting, the one on the refrigerator door.

he quickly paints a dog
into the scene - out of nowhere,
a butterfly


monet/wild poppies oil