Poppy stood in the moonlight, her slender frame shivering at the unexpected cold of the late summer weather. Pulling her shawl more tightly about her shoulders, she stared at the stone cottage before her from where she stood behind the massive oak tree, its heavy branches masking her image. Her eyes filled with tears. How she longed to enter the cottage and see the people who resided therein. How much she missed them. It had been two years since she'd last seen her family. Still, she knew she could not go inside the cottage. Despite the fact that things were different for her now, and she had a home and a family who loved her, she could never return to her homestead. If her mum and siblings knew the truth, for the rest of her life she would wear the shame of what she had done, and the shame would carry over to her family. Poppy had done the forbidden: she had had a baby out of wedlock. It was best to keep her distance and that her family was none the wiser.

********

Poppy left home once her stomach had begun to swell. She did not want to bring shame and embarrassment to her widowed mum, who was struggling, working hard as a laundry woman to secure a roof over the heads of her children. No, it would not do to have stayed and broken her dear mum’s heart. Therefore, she'd left, even though at the time, she did not know where she would go or to whom she would turn for help.

The year was 1884, and Poppy was sixteen years old when she'd first learned she was with babe. While she knew she was not ready to be a mother, she also knew that was not going to stop her from becoming one. She had loved a local farmer’s boy by the name of Jamie and foolishly believed all of his lies. In her naiveté, she had assumed Jamie would be eager to marry her and excited about the wee one, but foolishness had been hers to claim. Jamie had scoffed, refusing to even acknowledge the babe was his. Instead, he had accused her of sleeping with other men and called her names that to this day, she would not repeat even to herself. She had wept for days before she had packed her meager belongings and left home. The only note that she had left her sweet mum had been, “Please don’t worry. I have a housemaid’s job in Cornwall. I love you.” Of course, none of it was true beyond the fact that she did love her mum. She had no job and no place to go. The only money she had to her name were the few coins she had earned during the last two years from sewing handkerchiefs for young girls who were to be married. If she were frugal, the coins would cover at least a month's worth of lodging and food.

It was when she’d run out of money that she’d sat in the streets with her hand out, begging for help. It was the fourth day that she had not eaten, and she had become quite weak. Most ignored her unless they chose to stare, whispering about her to their companions. Weary and hungry, as she leaned against a building, an older woman had stopped to inquire as to her well-being. The woman had just exited the butcher’s shop and carried a small basket on her arm.

“Are you unwell? Do you need help, my child?” she had asked Poppy, her voice laced with concern.

Knowing it was all too obvious she was with child despite her thinness, Poppy had looked at the older woman, thinking of her own mum, and tears had sprung unbidden, falling from her blue eyes. She had been so strong for so long, but all she could think of was her unborn child. She knew the lack of food was harming the babe she carried.

“Ah, sweet child, please don’t cry,” the woman had implored, concern clearly etched across her wrinkled face and deep within warm, green orbs. “Can you stand, dear? Here, allow me to help you.” The old woman reached out an arm in hopes of helping Poppy rise to her feet.

Slowly and painstakingly, Poppy was able to stand, cradling her small baby as she did so, clutching the woman’s arm for support. The tears came full force as she did so, rolling down reddened, dirty cheeks.

“Sweet child, you mustn’t cry or you will be sick,” the old woman said. “Come along, and we will get some hot food inside you. Can you walk for a bit?”

Poppy had nodded. She still remembered that there was no judgement in the old woman’s eyes, only concern and something more that she had not been able to lay a name to at that moment. Slowly, the two had made their way on a path that led out of town and to a small cottage situated on the outskirts of the village. Poppy remembered thinking it was the most beautiful home she had ever seen, with the exception of her own, which seemed a lifetime away.

Once inside, the woman had Poppy sit down while she pulled together a plate of cheese, bread, and fruit from the cupboard and then poured a very large glass of milk from a pewter pitcher.

“Daisy, my cow, gave me this fresh milk just this morning. It will be good for both you and the wee one. Eat this, child, and in just a little while, I’ll have something much better and warmer to fill your stomach.”

“I don’t know how to thank you, missus,” Poppy had murmured, shame flaming her cheeks a bright red at the realization that the woman knew she was with child as well as also hungry and homeless.

The older woman had patted Poppy’s hand. “Hush now. There is no thanks needed. The good Lord says we are here to help one another, and that is exactly what I am doing, because my dear, sweet child, you look as though you are in much need of it.”

She smiled at Poppy as she spoke, and Poppy remembered thinking that it was the most beautiful smile she had ever seen despite the fact it was old and crooked. The woman’s green eyes were aglow with a light that Poppy had seen in very few people’s eyes in her short lifetime, but most especially, not very recently.

“I am simply Abigail, my dear,” the woman said. “What do they call you?”

“I am Poppy. Thank you, Abigail.”

Poppy had been six months along at the time, and Abigail was insistent that she remain with her, residing at the cozy cottage where shelter and food would not be a problem. Poppy thought there was little doubt Abigail was an angel. She was one of the kindest, sweetest souls Poppy had ever encountered.

Abigail did not talk much or ask many questions of Poppy, but while staying with her, Poppy had learned that Abigail had lost a nine-year old daughter, Lucy, many years ago. She also knew Abigail had a son, Angus, but he was out to sea and not expected to return home for a long while. Poppy had visions of Angus as a weathered, older gentleman since she was sure Abigail was in her late sixties at the very least.

Three months later, a sweet little squalling girl was born, and with Abigail’s permission, Poppy had named the child Lucy or Lucille Abigail. Abigail had cried as she held the precious baby for the first time, remembering her own sweet child that had long since departed the earth. It had filled Poppy with so much happiness to give something back to the woman who had saved her and her child's lives.

Once delivered of the baby, Poppy was able to help Abigail with much more, including chores and gardening. The two women lived isolated lives since Poppy was afraid to go into the village for fear she would be ostracized or that her condition would affect the way the villagers treated Abigail. Abigail had made a point of telling everyone in the village that her widowed and expectant niece had come to live with her all the way from Ireland, but Poppy still worried.

Abigail had a fabulous garden that would soon need tending since spring was just around the corner, and Poppy could not wait to stick her hands in the warmth of the earth's soil. She loved gardening and had often helped her mum. She was anxious to help Abigail in more ways than she had been able while she was still pregnant. Although thoughts of home would sometimes invade Poppy’s thoughts, she did not miss home nearly so much because of Lucy and Abigail. Abigail was very much a mother and a grandmother in every possible way.

One night, as Lucy lay sleeping in her cradle, the two women sat before the blazing warmth of the fire, knitting quietly. Abigail was humming contentedly as her arthritic fingers weaved the wool into a delicate pattern. Poppy was most content on evenings like this with a full stomach, the warmth of a cozy fire, and Lucy and Abigail beside her. She had never though that life would offer her so much happiness.

Abigail abruptly stopped her humming, looking up from her knitting. “You know that heaven sent you and Lucy to me, don’t you?” she asked. “The two of you have given my old heart so much joy.”

Poppy reached out a hand and lovingly placed it atop Abigail’s’ frail, wrinkled one. “Oh, Abigail, I know that heaven sent you to me and to Lucy. Who knows where we would be without your kindness,” she smiled through her tears.

Abigail’s crooked smile grew. “We are a family, my dear child, and we shall always be a family. Soon enough, Angus will return, to meet you and our precious Lucy and then our little family will be complete.”

Poppy’s smile faded with Abigail's words. She had to wonder what Angus would think of an unwed mother and her babe living with his mum. Would he throw them out on the street again or would he be kind like his mother? She wasn't, but fear gripped her heart. Her experiences with men, including her own father, had not been the best from which to form an opinion about any man, so she could only guess at what sort of man Angus might be.

********

Spring turned to summer. It was late June as Poppy tended the garden, kneeling on the ground, her face streaked with dirt and reddened from the sun despite Abigail’s straw hat that she wore. She was determined to have carrots and cabbage to go with the stew on the stove. She was pulling the vegetables from the earth when she heard a gentleman clear his voice directly behind her. Surprised, she stopped what she was doing, wondering who could have approached the house so quietly.

With a bit of trepidation, Poppy stood, adjusting her hat and wiping her hands on her apron before turning around to greet the visitor. As she did so, surprise lit his face. It was obvious, because of the hat and Abigail's altered dress that she wore, he had mistaken her for Abigail.

“May I help you, sir?” Poppy asked.

“Who are you?” Concern was evident in the man's his voice. “Where is Abigail? Where is my mum?” However, he was already heading toward the cottage, not waiting for Poppy to answer.

“She’s fine. Abigail is fine,” Poppy whispered after him, watching as he disappeared through the cottage door.

Evidently, Angus had returned. And evidently, Angus was no weathered, old sailor. Indeed, he could not have been more twenty-five years of age. Perhaps Abigail was not as old as Poppy thought. She wondered what Angus would think of her and Lucy? Would he want them gone now that he was home?

Steeling herself, Poppy slowly removed the hat and gloves. As she entered the doorway, she came upon a touching scene. Angus his mother still embracing, tears streaming down the older woman’s face. Abigail was so happy. Her son was home, and Poppy could see that little could have made the old woman happier.

Without saying a word, anxiously, Poppy waited. Eventually, Abigail and Angus parted, smiles on their faces. Abigail lovingly stroked her son’s bearded face. Poppy looked down at her feet, feeling as though she was intruding on a very private moment.

From the corner of the room, nine-month old Lucy gave a squeal, demanding attention. Angus’ eyes flew wide as his head spun in the direction of the squealing babe.

Abigail laughed and quickly headed to the cradle. “Angus, dear, please meet the newest addition to our family. This is Lucy,” she said with as much pride as Poppy.

Amazed by the baby, Angus reached out a large, sun-kissed hand to touch Lucy’s cheek and smiled at the cooing child. Lucy giggled, breaking into a toothless smile. Poppy's heart warmed at the sight.

“It’s as if she knows you, son,” Abigail said with pride. “Oh, but she’s a bright one, she is. She’ll be walking before you know it, too.”

From the doorway, Poppy uncomfortably shifted her position, and Abigail immediately turned to face her. “Oh my goodness, Angus. You have not met Lucy’s mother. This is our sweet, Poppy. They have been such a great help and comfort to your lonely, old mum while you've been away. They're our family now, son.”

Poppy smiled shyly at Angus before her gaze shifted to her feet. Her heart beat so strongly in her chest that Poppy was sure everyone could hear it.

Angus stared at Poppy for a long moment, and then asked, "May I?" Poppy looked up, unsure as to what he was asking. Angus then turned to his mother and reached to take Lucy into his arms. He walked toward Poppy until he stood before her, holding the cooing babe. Hesitantly, Poppy watched, surprised by the smile Angus wore as Lucy tugged on his beard.

“Thank you for helping my mum while I was away at sea,” Angus said quietly, his green eyes filled with a kindness that were reminiscent of Abigail’s eyes. “I do believe your sweet little Lucy is heaven sent. Welcome. Our family may be little, but we have a great deal of love between us.”

Soon and without a doubt, Poppy realized Angus was as kind-hearted and loving as his mother. Moreover, it was only four months after his return that the two of them were married in a small ceremony. It had taken very little time for the two to fall in love. In fact, Poppy believed it had been love at first sight, at least for her. when Angus had picked up Lucy. Now she and Lucy were finally a part of Abigail’s family, and Poppy wished never to leave. Maybe one day, much further down the road, though she would be able to return her own mum. Until then, she would write home to let her know she was well.

Despite everything, Poppy was at peace and much happier than she had ever been. She now understood the importance of true love, kindness, and family. There was no doubt heaven had sent her to where she was supposed to be, and she gave thanks every day for the good fortune that had come from something so unexpected and something that many would have considered unfortunate.

********

It was a fine summer evening many months later. Poppy contentedly rocked her sweet Lucy to sleep as her husband, Angus, sat before the fire, smoking his pipe as he read. His mother, Abigail, hummed as she knitted, quietly working on a sweater for Lucy. Poppy turned her gaze to the tabletop and studied the vase of lovely white summer roses in its center. They were beautiful flowers and seemingly flawless.

In the quiet of the evening, Poppy could not help but think upon the path life had taken since her unexpected pregnancy. She was suddenly aware and filled with newfound knowledge that blessings, much like the pure, white roses, surfaced in one’s life when needed, but most especially when least expected. Blessings came from all types of people and in many surprising ways. She would never stop being thankful for the blessings that had unexpectedly filled her heart, creating a new found home for her and her child. Her joy was very much like an overflowing abundance of pure, white roses. Indeed, her life was akin to the perfection found in the beautiful white flowers. Poppy's heart swelled. She felt she could weep tears of joy for all eternity so profound was her contentment and joy. Life was as perfect as the white rose in its splendor.

The flowers blossom

Is why Spring is so awesome!

A flower for every occasion

Even if you don’t have an invitation.

A rose, a tulip, or even a daisy

Occasionally these flowers seem a bit lazy.

Every flower to bloom in Spring time,

Is when these flowers are at their prime.

All of the flowers to blossom from Earth

Are bound to be considered as rebirth.

Put them in a pot on your window

Drown them in sunshine and let their skin show!

Flowers are pretty and fragile

With pedals that can be easily ripped

Don't break them, they can't run

They may end up snipped

Roses turn brown

Violets do too

Are they still pretty

When they lose their hue

Mom said I was a flower

I think that was right

Because now I decay

But I won't put up a fight

I’m rescued and I’m loved, I bloom so freely, I thrive.

I outgrow my home.

New home, I bloom, I thrive, I’m green, I’m happy.

I’m Green, and I’m brown.

I’m Brown?

I’m different not like my brothers, I’m green, but I’m brown.

I bloom, I’m green, but now again I’m brown.

I eat, I drink, I’m Bloom.

I produce new ME’s, I’m gifted beautifully, but I am not who I use to be, I’m brown.

Beautifully, big new home, I bloom so green, but then all over again I’m brown.

My home, fresh new stakes, but I’m brown.

Ripped from new my home, and inside the walls uninvited guest.

Who allowed you into my new home?

My beautiful home?

Wait …. What’s in me?

Paint in my roots, my home is killing me!!

Paint in my roots and pest in my food, I’m brown.

Showered in loved, new food, new home, trimmed and divided.

I don’t want to be brown.

Please new home, don’t make me brown.

Flowers are life.

They are peace and goodness. Of the good side and handled with the delicate hands that covets life.

Each fold within thin paper to mimic the natural bushel of a carnation, each petal opening with a pull.

"Ahh!" Devo yelped.

"See, I told you," Tram chided softly, hands atop his own, brushing the tear, "the more layers you insist on making the more careful you have to be."

"You're still holding my hands."

"To see if I can save it, someone asked me for help in making fifty freaking thousand decorations for the End of Year aesthetic this year."

And sure enough he concealed the imperfection, integrating it into a downturned face of Poppy layers.

"Okay last fold," Tram continued to guide...

Flowers was friendship.

It was precision and passion in perfect marriage.

Victory and domination, the last fold in appreciating this little puppet as it sways in the winds. Fate barreling with urgency with each encounter.

Shying away.

Hiding the scoundrel heart that pretends it is good as it produces bouquets. Chooses color scheme to match with hair and light of a spot. Of The Spot.

For paper flowers are the delicate string of commonality. turning virile enemies to something like friends.

The end of a dangerous game.

Hair black as night and skin now cold in death.

Within her hands was a bundle of flowers.

Lilies, carnations, mum flowers.

Flowing white and distinct, blotting from the faded, grievous white of a final frock.

Black stems with bulbs atop heads, whispering in sheets of rain.

Murder they wrote.

The Mother there too.

how dare she?

How should she dare?

Audacious nerve.

To love the son who murdered the little loving daughter.

The flowers sent to a caged monster in a clear plastic cup are bluebells. turned yellow and dreary as they wilted.

Something that could be called a smile passed upon his face when his wilted Mother came by again. If it weren't so smug.

Because he was all she could conceive. The only one who would listen to her talk, listen to her blame him and then herself.

For killing the love in them both.

Roses black and thorned.

Greg cast aside what had once ensnared his eye.

Turned icy and alert to a presence just above his shoulder; a glare too panicked to have any effect.

Besides a pitying smile as Abraxus acquiesced to stay in sight.

Stay within safe range that he could not so simply warp with loving, gentle pink to his likings. Enchant in twisting twines of ivy.

Somewhat like the tangle of emerald green thorn.

"Do you like?"

"Come now tell me. I won't burn it to ashes, I made it you know."

This elicited a turn.

Brow furrowed suspiciously, yet that ever growing uncertainty buried in the cold, weary blue.

"I made it thinking of you. I left you them don't you remember?"

"You're a freaking messed up sicko."

"Blue roses are not natural with your limited energies and conceptions," he replied instead with a smile. "Oh I don't mean that to insult your race, but it is the objective matter of it. Because it isn't important within your interests is it?"

Money and power.

No moral, no compassion.

No rose within their hearts, no life.

No, in a human's heart was stone.

Though could it be, that in the very select, in the young and not defiled, no matter how bloodied or battered... could that stone yield the most beautiful rose?

"You're creepy," Greg maintained crushing the bud or...

So he tried.

And simply dumped it back within the dirt.

"Blue roses. Of all the colors. Dark blue?"

"It means love unrequited or unattainable."

Greg said nothing when strong arms lifted him a few inches off, embracing his waist cozy and strong.

Flowers are love.

They are tense dinners over candle with a tyrant.

A rounded tower with a bulbous eye-like window overlooking the expanses of Earthen ruins.

We the humans, we ruin flowers. We "deflower," assert power over the sighing cradle of flowers.

We're going to ruin this world aren't we?

We're going to eradicate these flowers that have formed us and who we have formed to new meaning.