Poppies

It’s our first spring in the garden at Wingate house, and among all the wonders unfolding around us, the poppies — with their odd, hairy pods, their tightly packed tissue paper petals unfurling hour by hour — are one of the greatest pleasures.

Before they opened, Hugh reverently enfolded the pods in his little hands and just barely resisted the urge to squeeze.  (Gentle, gentle, GENTLE!)  He ran a finger along the split seam of an opening bud and attempted to help it along, peeling back its edges to coax the bright orange mystery out into the sun.

I will resist the parenting metaphors.

Except for this one comment: when you anticipate the beauty hidden within, every moment of unfolding, bending, dancing in the breeze is thrilling.

I check on them every day, multiple times a day. They catch my eye from across the garden, and I have the urge to rush over and see what’s new.

I read and read and read Mary Oliver’s brilliant poem, one of my favorites long before I had poppies of my own to contemplate.

Poppies

The poppies send up their
orange flares; swaying
in the wind, their congregations
are a levitation

of bright dust, of thin
and lacy leaves.
There isn’t a place
in this world that doesn’t

sooner or later drown
in the indigos of darkness,
but now, for a while,
the roughage

shines like a miracle
as it floats above everything
with its yellow hair.
Of course nothing stops the cold,

black, curved blade
from hooking forward—
of course
loss is the great lesson.

But I also say this: that light
is an invitation
to happiness,
and that happiness,

when it’s done right,
is a kind of holiness,
palpable and redemptive.
Inside the bright fields,

touched by their rough and spongy gold,
I am washed and washed
in the river
of earthly delight—

and what are you going to do—
what can you do
about it—
deep, blue night?

Mary Oliver