It’s raining. Monday morning. I find myself thinking about a poppy plant that I noticed growing in our front yard. More than a year ago I scattered some poppy seeds here and there, hoping for lots of poppies. None of them made it. I figured I’d have to try again and be a bit more deliberate about it. But then coming home from a walk the other day, I noticed this one smallish poppy plant near the sago palm.
I’ve been watching it. I’m sure this rain will do it good. The plant is several inches taller now than when I first noticed it. Perhaps it will have some buds soon, those sharp, conical poppy buds, pointing to the sky one day and the next, suddenly exploding into a wispy orange fire.
It’s the time of year that reaffirms the miraculous. The mostly dead nectarine tree puts out delicate pink flowers. The neglected lantana plant that we gave up for lost during the dry summer and winter suddenly breathes and produces piles of purple flowers. Drought tolerant plants. They just kind of bide their time. They wait for the rain. They embrace death, only to burst forth with resurrection. They are very patient.
I’ll have to be more patient as well. Drought tolerant. The seeds of good things and hope cradled inside waiting for the rain.