311 Until the Poppies Bloom The stories that were never spoken and the experiences that were once shared are now nothing more than dust. The lives, which were once flowing with passion, have withered to the point where almost nothing remains. Yet, we only set aside time once a year to recognize something that should be remembered far more often. It's now simply a misplaced memory that we pull out of the box for one day, figuring that's what we're meant to do. The blood shed for us has no value until the poppies bloom and the flag is down. Likewise, as the sun sets, our respect fades once more. Our hero's memories are once again sealed as we shove the box back under the bed. We somehow let ourselves to forget how much was sacrificed. How many individuals have died in order for us to be happy? Simply so that we might live in joy and peace. So, lest we forget, we were given far more than we could have imagined; after all, what could be more precious than their lives? Intermediate Poem, Third Place Antonina Hallonquist, Branch #118 - North Vancouver
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