Poppies
Beneath the trees,
The poppies dance in the breeze.
Though by a lake,
They get a break.
At night the stars shine,
In a never-ending line.
In the day, the sky is low,
As a poppy I will grow.
Years after years,
Poppies never disappear.
We place them on a cross,
To represent our loss.
In November we mark,
The loneliness in our heart.
By wearing a poppy bright and red,
To remember both the survivors and the dead.