Where did all the Wednesdays go?

See the poppies dip and sway
like gems scattered through the field,
brilliant for a day.

So it is with memory,
flashes amidst the field of days and weeks
bright flares amidst the rippling green.

No way to hold or keep,
time, fragile as a petal, slips away
caught by passing currents, choice and chance.

The times I bent to tie your shoe,
took your hand in mine,
read the story one more time.

Yet, when the last petal falls, tattered, faded
all lust and luster gone
the proud pod tips and scatters its seed upon the wind.