The poppy appeared in my flower bed,
the careless product of a forgotten planting.
Shy at first, it held its vibrancy tight within its bud.
But who can contain such glory?
Flinging aside all caution, it opened its petals
to dazzle the world with its
red and black flower.
The pumpkin appeared on my kitchen counter,
solid, round, orange,
the product of months of careful cultivation
of preparing the soil,
of planting the seed,
of tending the seedling,
of protecting from slugs,
Sometimes I have poppy happiness
but usually it’s the pumpkin kind.
And each year, I grow a new one.