It doesn't exist, the perfect poppy poem, that is. This is the second year I searched without success for it. Poets avoid such drivel; flowers are out of fashion (goddess forbid), and there you have it. Maybe it isn't possible, the perfect poppy poem, that is.
As long as we're alliterating, have you ever seen a more pregnant plant? This is a leek, icon of the warrior, and hasn't our hero gone all feminine on us? This bud has been plump like this a week or more. I've never seen one bloom, so I'm anticipating it with delight. O, sure, I know all about onion buds and flowers. (I'm supposed to snip them off for reason of keeping the bulb fat.)
In fact, here's the ordinary kind in the picture below. Humble to say the least.
What's this then? Another of my leeks, this one who stunningly failed to represent the standing, stalwart hero of the Viking Age, the literature of which had a love affair with leeks.
Sheesh, I can't do onions without a picture of my Egyptian Walking Onions (EWO; see my clearinghouse of EWO links on my right-hand sidebar.)