WINTER POPPIES

ByEvian Keen

The icy wind stabs at my bare skin and cuts through my jacket, dulling my senses. A shiver runs down my spine, and I blink, attempting to see out across the clearing. Stubborn yellowed stalks stand firm, skeletons of days gone by banding together to collect the drifting snow. I know the wind cuts sharper out there and the wild snow is blinding, but if I can just get to the other side. Down in the valley they say the birds sing and the flowers grow this time of year. Just a little farther, I can smell the poppies. 

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