Vagabond Multilingual Journal Spring 2005 | Page 11

Poppies “Coquelicot” He said. “Co-que-li-cot” You know what that is? I knew, but I shook my head softly, Wanting him to continue repeating the word, Soft and sweet like a lyrical symphony. It was always like this with him, Each sentence he spoke was poetry, even when he asked me to water the seeds, Or to walk the dog with him. At ?rst, I just assumed that it was the beautiful language, This musical language, But later, in the town of grey I searched for this poetry in other people But only found grumbling and screeching that made me think of a tortured bird. He repeated it, “Co-que-li-cot,” many times, Then let his tongue run off, saying something that even he couldn’t understand, Taking my hands in his to begin the search As real farmers do, we left our shoes back at the cottage, And though my poor feet weren’t strong and callused like his (I wouldn’t let Myself realize that I was only a temporary farmer) I ran smiling, mouth open as the thorns and pine needles Stung me like little insects. Just before the arrival of dusk He found a nice bunch of poppies “Here!” Ah! I smiled, pretending that I ?nally understood to give him the pride he needed, skilled teacher, a good person that he is. As the sun retreated, tenderly, We gazed at the poppies until our eyes began to glisten, Then kissed, As a gesture of appreciation for the ?owers’ existence. Jenny Gilbert

Actions come after ideas; Ideas come after knowledge

VAGABOND

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