That the day the admiral of the fields returned with her hat of bright-bold red, announcing that the season of the poppy had arrived anew.
In the late summer wind are the red flags of the poppy petals, a living masterpiece of nature. Though they grow unnoticed by so many, they are more to my eye than a monet or any artwork that brings their likeness in beautiful strokes of softest bristles.
The poppy is such casual beauty, enough to bring me into the vibrancy of the moment, all of my thoughts on blessed pause. It is a dancing of red that is so proud, so flamboyant and perfectly formed. Each petal reminds me of chiffon, of silk, or delicate fabrics that move in the hot winds of the summer.
The poppy is the diva of the garden, a quiet carnival in her own right. She grows there in utter defiance of drabness, a statement that the normal and natural can be a casual riot.
Each poppy petal is an elegant fan, one that invite the eye to feast and the heart to grow. Each bloom is a poem of the natural world, the words expanding with the sunshine and rain until once again they are reborn in thousands of pretty black seeds.