The Promise In A Few

Since mid July, there’s been wave upon wave of brilliant orange and red. The poppies just won’t stop. On and on they bloom, backlit by morning sun shot through the branches of the giant spruce tree, their papery petals glowing. 

The thing is, I never planted them. Ten years of flower gardening and in all the plants I’ve tucked into soil, poppies weren’t one of them. They just decided to come. While weeding one spring day a few years back, I came across a plant that made me pause my pulling. You look like a poppy. I quietly left it to grow. That summer, the first poppies bloomed. 

Over seasons and time, in fall and winter winds, the seeds were shaken from their pods and scattered, tiny promises of beauty coming. Spring rain soaked them, swelled them. Soil held them warm. Then, on a summer day, their bowed buds looked up and popped delicate crepe petals, shots of brilliant color. Every year, more, then more, then more. Now, they’re everywhere. 

And this year, for the first time, they've bloomed in the pasture, too. A stunning, thrilling surprise. There in the chest-high grass across the pasture fence, fiery flames of orange. Just a few, but I now know the promise in a few.