The Rose and the Poppy

By: Adrianna Puente

I am not a rose.
I am not a ravishing ruby red,
or even a semblance of purity white.
I am not the flower you give to a lover,
or a token of comfort you give to a friend in the hospital.
I am not a symbol of romance-
of new moments to be made,
of old memories to be cherished. 
And 
though I am not a beautiful maroon,
or shade of rouge;
buds picked to be set onto a bed of down and wine.
I am just as delicate and refined. 

I am not a rose. 
I am a poppy flower,
wild in fields of green and blues. 
I am electric orange-
like tangerines in an orchard of trees,
my skin’s perfume meshed in the summer breeze. 

I am not universally known,
and most times I am forgotten.
Not always pretty,
For they too have turned away;
never chosen 
for eager hands on Valentine’s day-
but I am my own. 

And I do not envy the rose.
Petals can be soft to everyone’s eyes. 
But I’ll never know why
You never chose mine.