The Poppy Flower

Delicate and soft, the most beautiful poppy flower stands before me. Gently swaying in the breeze, her tender face gleaming up toward the sun. 

Warm dew settles at my bare feet, fresh grass tickles my toes. Birds brightly chirp in the morning, but all I notice is this poppy flower. How gentle she is, and how vibrant. How hard and black the pin of the stigma in contrast to the graceful petals. Is it possible that such an unforgiving center lives within this mild flower?

I do not take my eyes off this entrancing plant as I scratch the tickling grass off my ankles. 

I wonder, where are her friends? 

Is it that her beauty is so radiant that all other poppies disappeared out of jealousy? If I were a poppy, I would certainly leave. Any poppy is insufferably disappointing compared with her.   

Maybe she deserves a name, I think, as I scratch the grass that relentlessly tickles my knee. Scarlett seems to fit her, because of her ruby red color. No, that seems too boastful of a name. She needs something more modest. 

Anastasia means full of grace. She is certainly full of grace, but she is much more than simply “grace.” I remember a name I saw in The New Yorker back home. Aurelia or something of that sort. It means “golden” in Latin. Yes, she is certainly my sun, but she is red in color, not gold. Gold in heart maybe, but red in color. No, Aurelia is not the name for her. 

My eyes still strongly fixed on my poppy, I scratch the obnoxiously persistent grass ticking my lower thigh. Soon it will reach my shorts, and I won’t have to think about it anymore. Soon, the grass will grow to my upper thigh and it will not be an issue anymore. Then, I can fully focus on my poppy. 

The two of us stand here. We stare at each other. 

Time passes so quickly with my poppy, I hardly recognize that the birds have long stopped their chirping. The grass now reaches my stomach. I stand on my tiptoes in order to not lose sight of my poppy. 

A violent itch has been bothering my shoulders, but I have been ignoring it for so long. What would happen if I reach to itch my shoulder, and with that motion, my head moves and I lose sight of my poppy? What if when my head turns, I lose sight of my poppy, and I never find her again? 

I had been ignoring the violent itch on my shoulder, but now it is too much to bear. I scratch the gentlest bit, in order to not shake my head around and lose sight of my poppy. I feel skin come off with my scratch, though I hardly think about it. I must have a sunburn, I think. Nothing to worry about. Nothing more important than my poppy. 

Now, the grass reaches my chest and I can no longer stand on tiptoes to see. Slowly, I part the grass with my chipping hands. I kneel down to join her. I am happy to see that my arms seem to be the same beautiful color as her rare petals: bright ruby red. My knees sink into the soft soil. My foot cramps, but I dare not move for fear of losing sight of my poppy. What would happen if I go to move my foot, and with that motion, my head moves so that I lose sight of my poppy? What if when my head turns, I lose sight of my poppy, and I never find her again? 

My foot cramp can sit for some time more. 

While I feel tired and weak, she still looks so strong and dazzling. I wonder why nobody else ever comes to this field. If I were them, I would certainly come to this field. I would come and never leave, just so I could look at my poppy.

No, better not think like that. If someone else comes to this field, I might have to share my poppy with them. No, better not think like that. 

The sun does burn down awfully hot. My mouth does feel awfully dry. I wonder where I might get water? No, I mustn’t. Go somewhere else? To get water? Without your poppy? What silly speculation! My thirst can wait. Nothing to worry about. Nothing more important than my poppy. 

My mouth does feel awfully dry. My stomach does feel awfully empty. 

I think to myself: I wonder where I might get a little food? No, what a thought! Go somewhere else? To get food? Without your poppy? What silly speculation! My hunger can wait. Nothing to worry about. Nothing more important than my poppy. 

Nothing more important than my poppy. 

I fall to my elbows as the grass wraps its arms around me. Nothing more important than my poppy. 

My head falls, but I carefully keep my eyes on my poppy. Nothing more important than my poppy.

I continue to think this as my eyes slowly close, the image of the most beautiful poppy flower still standing before me. Gently swaying in the wind, her soft face gleaming up toward the sun. 

Nothing more important than my poppy.