"I have hundreds of them--they spread everywhere," she boasted.
I don't know how that is even possible. Every year I start from scratch. Come spring, I see whole acerages covered with them, but not here. All I want is a small bunch--just one--I'd be happy.
The bold, brassy poppy. Red crowns, licorice-coloured faces dancing joyously in the sun, bleeding passion into the air. My place needs that energy. I long to have them grace my gardens, but no, it seems it's not to be.
Sadly, I move on, making do with roses.
The wild profussion of spring in Maine takes my breath away.