All But One

Hundreds of poppies in the garden plot
Await the sun’s bright hands.
He’ll open them, but one will not;
Already spread, she stands.

She looked all night on stars above,
While all her sisters slept;
They only sought lost dreams to love;
Her waking dreams she kept.

What they have missed they’ll never know,
Who seek not starry light;
Alone she stands with golden glow,
In individual height.

Now clouds come in to block the sun
As higher he does rise;
The poppies sleep—all, all but one
Who smiles upon my eyes.

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