Poppies Know the Wind!

When I was a child, I would spend summer days searching for poppies along the walls and in abandoned lots. So small and fragile they were, it was clear they belonged to no part of the world I lived in. And yet, they grew—lifting themselves as far as they could reach. In some quiet, hidden way, they seemed to count the wind as a friend, a companion; for even the fiercest gusts could not tear their petals apart. Instead, their petals held hands, resisting together. The wind, their gentle ally, would kiss their crimson blades—ending in a soft velvet black—then move on.

Their slender green stems looked breakable, and yet I still wonder how they stood so tall, so steady, against the storm. Like a banner caught in midair, or the waves of a sea stirred by breeze, they would shiver—never shatter.

But they did not consider humans as friends. The moment a hand reached toward them, their petals began to lose hope, one by one. They gave up on life all at once, scattering like dandelion seeds in the air. They could tell the difference—between the hand of the wind, born of their mother Nature, and the hands of her enemies.