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This past Saturday I made a trip with my lady friend up to Antelope Valley Poppy Reserve. Even though the hot, dry sun promised a beating, a nice cool breeze greeted us instead. Thank goodness, because there was not a tree in sight, though there was plenty of fire! Flower fire! They should really have Mario eat a California poppy to get his fireball power.

Even though I thoroughly enjoyed the brilliant display, I heard from the park ranger that Mother Nature is much more ostentatious and generous when there’s more rain. At the visitor’s center, I saw some pictures of the valley’s fields from 2008 – a really rainy year – and the orange-gold poppies covered the field like snow after a blizzard storm. I hope I get to see that some day. If not, I’m happy and content to witness such beauty this past Saturday, especially with such good company.

After the trip I really wanted to write a follow-up to Wordsworth’s “daffodils”, and pen my own “Californica”, or “golden poppy”, but then after an hour of trying to trump up some profound thoughts, I realized again how hard it is to write good poetry. It’s one thing to get all the syllables and rhymes to fall in line, but it’s another to convince them ally themselves under a single, noble theme.

Then again, Wordsworth’s poem wasn’t that great – in the end, instead of extolling the virtues and wonders of the daffodil, it became a self-referential, delusional paroxysm induced by extreme loneliness. Wordsworth had to get wordy because he was so lonely to the point where he had create some friends out of “crowds” of daffodils.

I know that my interpretation of Wordsworth’s poem is unkind and cynical.

Anyways, I just wrote the blurb below on a whimsy.

If heaven boasts of roads laden with gold,

I’d  brag about the golden poppy fields wherein i’ve rolled.

Would St. Peter correct his mistake, then condemn me to fall?

I think not, golden fields are God’s gold, after all:

field poppies  purple flowers among golden poppiesupcloseandpersonal

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