I can only surmise that a flower arrangement given to me by friends went rogue after being discarded in the compost heap last summer, because here I am, waiting for poppy seed heads that I did not plant to dry. They arrived this June in the vicinity of their earthly grave, a series of renewed and glorious blots of watermelon set on comically long, skinny necks. I thought about the women in Modigliani’s life when I looked at them. Did you know the seeds sprinkle out of those little arches at the top, like a salt and pepper shaker? I think I’ll sow them by the light of the next full moon, just because the earth in the meadow smells nice then, and I’ve been seeing some fireflies there lately.