Not enough gold left
in the last of the poppies
as spring fades away.
Not enough gold left
in the last of the poppies
as spring fades away.
Posted in Haiku 2024, Photographs, Poems 2024, poetry, Ranch Journal
Tagged Golden Poppies, haiku, photography, poetry
Christmas storms colored the canyon early,
purple brodiaea, blue lupine, white flakes of snow
upon the green as wildfires of poppies spread
slope to slope, mid-February, forty-five days
warm without rain. I used to think I knew
what it took to paint these hills with flowers,
like the warm spring rains in ’78
after the drought. Living here 100 years,
Nora Montgomery claimed she’d never seen
so many poppies in this canyon, solid gold—
nor I since. Each a fantasy, no two springs
the same, we live in the 10-day forecast
for rain, for grass, for cattle. The Old
Farmer’s Almanac predicts a backwards
spring, growing cooler through April—
we never know, and like the cattle
in grazing circles, we plod through time,
always eager for another taste of spring.
After four days in the 70s, 10 degrees above average, the wildflowers are popping everywhere. These across the creek from the house may be only the beginning, white popcorn flowers following suit. Stay tuned.