Wide-open-windowed in the morning time It could belong to anyone, A sewing-room, where winds might scatter threads, A play-room for the sun, An easy height for sweetnesses to climb -- Those tendrilled fragrances, like ivies twining, Of cooling loaves and browning loam And blossoms moist with June -- But later in the afternoon It was my mother's. Then, with a bobbing, like bright heads, The sun stole 'round the house and hushed its shining, The wind put up its needles and went home, And fragrance swung no further than the eaves But held its breath there in the leaves, As if they knew this place was now no other's, As if, with me, each heard her say, "Run off now, dear, and play, I'm going to the Poppy-Room." Whether those paper poppies on the wall Were real to her or just a dreamy bloom, Whether she bowed to them or made them bow For her, I never knew at all -- I only knew that she came down the stairs At evening, as a star comes down the sky, Her eyes as calm as prayers, Her steps a lullaby. Remembering those rows of sleepy plumes And how my mother sought them all alone, I am not wistful now When, for a moment, people seek release. I watch their thoughts draw down across their minds With the finality of blinds; I hear their silence like a turning key, And know that they have closed to me Some holy place they call their own. And so I am not lonely -- They have not really left me, they are only Going to their poppy-rooms. They will return in peace. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...SONG OF KAREN, THE DANCING CHILD by KATHERINE MANSFIELD CONTRA MORTEM: THE STONE by HAYDEN CARRUTH NOT TRANSHISTORICAL DEATH, OR AT LEAST NOT QUITE by HAYDEN CARRUTH BENEDICTION by GEORGIA DOUGLAS JOHNSON |