Poppies rank among my favorite flowers. They poke their beardy little pods up through the scalloped-edged leaves, languorously stretching ever skyward until the bud stands a full foot above her lowly earth-bound neighbors. Then the encasement of five-o'clock shadow gives way and a saucy flounce of papery petals unfurl, remarkably tenacious in a windstorm.
The poppy bloom is one of the most elegant of the flower queendom. She is at once classic and contemporary, young and ancient, Asian and New World, highly addictive contraband and peace-and-relief-giving medicine. All this in the clever packaging of a grand dame who is a raving beauty with the gypsy-like self-possession to show up for her photo-shoot without shaving her whiskery legs. Gotta love those poppies!
5 comments:
Well that was just so beautifully put! Without shaving her legs indeed!
barbara/leazwell - you like my writing? You REALLY like my writing? *toe shuffle* Garsh, 'tweren't nuthin'.
Pfft.
Bah.
Slow goes the turtle.
Morning glories let you see both god and the future.
I mean, if you like clever packaging the poppies rot in the spring.
Ah, but the poppies do us the courtesy of leaving behind lovely pods full of yummy seeds to help us fail a pee test. It's a gift that keeps on giving. I wonder who thought of eating those seeds, though - they're so tiny.
How can your words be prettier than the poppy itself!
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