Poppies with Some Metaphors

On Saturday, I went on a private-garden tour sponsored by The Garden Conservancy in Provincetown. At the first, I was struck by the pink poppies which resembled ballet dancers in layers of papery silk.

Or saucers and cups meant for woodland, or maybe meadow,  fairies.

They ruffled in the wind, like peacocks wafting tail feathers.



In another garden, I came across giant bread seed poppies, tall splashes of color growing up through curling spires of digitalis.




Further in, up a path, a gate lead into another world.


To a place where imagination and quiet is invited in, and a person, if inclined, could put pen to paper.  Tennessee Williams did here, once, entering through the yellow door.

Where Tennessse Williams once wrote

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