Have you ever gazed deep inside a poppy?

DSC_0067  Poppy2

“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.

7 thoughts on “Poppy

    • Thank you. I’ve seen pictures of fields of Icelandic Poppies in California. They are beautiful, much smaller and more yellow orange where the patches that Midwesterners had in their yards Are huge, scarlet/orange, frowsy, ultimately quite messy and ultimately look like your yard has been taken over by alien pod beings. Somehow they fell out of favor. They are want to do as they will. We modern folk like control over our beastly flowers I guess.

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