The desert giant falls upon the sand,
Her wooden ribs now bared to burning sun.
The armor stripped by time’s relentless hand,
A long and weary vigil now is done.
Yet round this hollow cage, the poppies wake,
In golden tides that wash against the gray.
Small petals tremble for a season’s sake,
Brief sparks of life amidst the slow decay.
The skeleton reminds us we must pass,
That even iron giants turn to dust.
As fleeting as the morning’s meadow grass,
Our strength is borrowed, held in holy trust.
For in this grave of wood and floral breath,
The sweetest bloom is nurtured by a death.
