Spring Poppy Superbloom
by Michael Shoemaker
Granny counted turtles for the State of California
and was always good with numbers
a bookkeeping graduate of Pima Academy
in southeastern Arizona.
She would take me on visits to my Uncle George’s
through what I always thought was the Great California Desert
although I never really knew the real name
being young enough that nobody expected me to know anything.
One day on the drive, she pulled over the car.
We got out and Granny pointed to a hill.
“What do you see?” she asked.
Nervous that she would not like my answer,
I said, “Nothing, I mean dirt, no nothing.” She smiled.
At George’s, I slept in the upper bunk in my cousin Cordy’s room.
I couldn’t get to sleep with him wanting to talk and talk,
a country boy wanting to say something to a city visitor.
The rain pounded the metal roof all night, harder than I had ever known.
It was enough for the desert to take back part of the road.
On the way back, Granny stopped, and we faced the same hill.
Something new, a sea of California poppies, thousands—millions
a renewed promise after the flood of yellow-orange goodness
blanketed the hillside with simple majesty
that made my skin tingle.
I had heard of the Throne of God and thought
poppies must be the color of this Throne.
Granny asked once again, “What do you see?”
waiting for my answer, breathing in the desert life.
“I see heaven, just heaven, Granny, don’t you?”
She smiled the biggest smile showing nearly all her teeth.
Granny appeared pleased with my response.
I wonder how I can get to count turtles for a living.
About the Poet
Michael Shoemaker is a poet, writer, and photographer. His writing has appeared in Blue Lake Review, Front Porch Review, and in anthologies at Poetry Pacific and Pure Slush. He lives in Magna, Utah with his wife and son. He is the author of Rocky Mountain Reflections (Poets’ Choice, 2023).
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Image: Point Buchon – California Poppies by docentjoyce, CC BY 2.0 Deed, via Flickr.com.
