Poppy field in the rain

As a child, poppies captured my imagination like nothing else. I imagined them speaking to me in red hues, and I whispered to them each spring, waiting until the next. Until I grew up and my eyes searched for them even in autumn, yearning for their fragile petals and their presence. From solitary walks in the countryside to bus rides briefly passing through rural areas, fields made no sense to my essence without poppies. I longed for the spring days, when I could count their presence in multitudes. Now I seek poppies in nature, in language, in paints, in anything that offers the possibility of perpetual regeneration and the abundance of dreams.

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