One of the best things about my ex-romance/now-friendship with Frank is the flowers I planted in the backyard as a result of my exposure to his garden. I did not have time yesterday to photograph the poppy again, now without petals. It was just incredible. Today when I looked at it, it was just a small star at the end of the stem. Truly a wonder of nature.
I have two more poppy buds that will, I'm hopeful, bloom next week. I'll document them again, because it's really something to behold.
So as I stood watering this morning, I was pondering why I love poppies so much. And I remembered. In 1971, as I was traveling on a bus from Paris out to Fontainebleau to meet Nadia Boulanger for the first time and get settled into my summer schedule, we passed fields and fields of poppies. Acres of red and coral, waving in the breeze.
It's the kind of vista that lets you know, without a doubt, that you're in Europe.
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