I love the way California poppies undress before they debut, their satiny orange petals held in place by cone-shaped, diaphanous robes. Or maybe those are hats?
In spring, poppies sashay in drifts through my Southern CA garden, wearing tea-length, glossy satin gowns.
Poppies reseed on their own, so I never know exactly where they’ll appear. A friend gave me an idea I’m going to try this year: After the flowers turn into slender seedpods, he cuts the whole shebang off at the base, leaving the plant intact. Then he tosses the bunches wherever he wants poppies the next spring.
Poppies are feminine, ephemeral and exuberantly orange. Here, they flirt with my masculine, brooding, silver-blue agave.
On cloudy days and at night, poppies swirl shut, as though feeling a chill. As a child, I imagined them saying (in high-pitched voices), “Show’s over…bye-bye!”