Here it is, mid-November, but my front garden is seemingly unaware of the fact. These pictures were taken about a half-hour ago.
This is my first year growing poppies and I am utterly charmed by how fragile they appear, yet how hardy they actually are. Every night I sit out on the front stoop for a bit, taking in the air and clearing my head before turning in for the night. There have been nights when the grass was crispy and a cautious poke at the poppy petals revealed them to be frozen solid; as delicate (I would imagine) as a glass potato chip. However, the morning dawns and they raise their cheery little heads and sing once more.
Thank you, God, for poppies. I hope to grow up to be one.