Letter to a Poppy

Little ars poetica, little obvious symbol, stupidly
and just yesterday I took your blooming as a promise
that for weeks I could walk by and be happy
at the sight of you, tiny flag blazing among the green
and brown of mulch and weed, the color of fire,
alive. But the May thunderstorm surprised us with
its doggedness and fury, its two-inch-thick blanket
of hail the size of eyeballs. There’s nothing new
about the message your death transmits. You’re
a scatter of silk in the grass and I can’t take the I out.
What can I imagine that you haven’t already showed me?
I say your name aloud, a crow lands where you lie.