Wild garden

I saw a poppy flower open, must be
at night when she imploded, another poppy
yesterday was alone, now both a trophy
made. They belong to a corner from this reign
of physical reality where the world is seeing
on its full crudeness, that’s the sense a wild
garden offer to us: silver worms treating
to feed, to watch a small flowers bouquet
being roughing for the flying bee, she jumps into
insignificant petals, the medium floral plant
carries yellow spots that at night showers
from heaven by dew miraculously posed
over this limbo where poppies and calendulas converge
making from this sacred space a wild garden.