Field full of flowers.
“Poppy! ”
I tell her.
“Poppy! Poppy! Poppy! ”
my little poppet chants.
Picks flower
after flower
for hours
cradles them
in her dress.
Enough! Too much!
“Shhhh...! ”
I tell her
“...the flowers must rest...go to sleep! ”
“Flowers
...go sleeps! ”
she repeats
“Shhhh...! ”
Suddenly from
nowhere & everywhere
a scattering of
butterflies.
“Ah, flowers wake up! ”
she explains sensibly
to herself.
I tell her
when “...flowers dream
they can fly
they turn into butterflies! ”
All the way
home in the car
she strokes her
weary wilted flowers:
“Sleep...sleep...
dream...becomes butterfly! ”
And then adds: “...please? ”
Flying flowers
dancing in her little mind
totally believing in
my beautiful lie.
And as she too
falls into dreams
the car fills up
with flowers
flying flowers
her dreams escaping
into reality.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
Again, and as always, you traverse the child's mind with that beautiful, delicate touch that is so heart-felt. I don't think I have ever seen a more beautiful idea in print than flowers dreaming...to become 'buflies, ' as my youngest grand one calls them....thank you so much, Dearest, for this one. I loved it, right down to my bones...