Have you ever gazed deep inside a poppy?
“Summer set lip to earth’s bosom bare,
And left the flushed print in a poppy there:”
~ Francis Thompson
To the ‘old folks’ they were flowers of remembrance but to my young eyes I found them exuberant, lush, hypnotic, as they danced on tall grasses of June. They enticed you to pick them but when you did they dropped their scarlet skirts leaving you with an alien stem to present to your mother. Not at all the look you intended. Better a dandelion.
There is a wantonness to poppies that snowy days of February completely lack. I feel Flaming June, by Frederic Lord Leighton (1830-1896) caught the essence of poppies quite well:
I’m thinking a flower a day for this first week of cabin-fevered February might move things right along. And maybe by tomorrow I’ll have that link thing nailed.