carrying a torch

A little torch burns in my garden; orange California Poppies, their petals transparent in the bright light of morning. Looking at them fluttering in the morning breeze fills my heart with a glow of happy recollection and a strangely sweet longing.
We had happily tented on Hornby Island and were waiting for the ferry to bear us swiftly back to life on the mainland. I wandered along the dusty roadside admiring the California Poppies. They led me like Hansel and Gretel's crumbs along a winding path, out onto a grassy point overlooking the bay; the wide cobalt bay. I was surrounded by bleached driftwood, giant bones of ancient trees.  My eye was drawn back to the curve of the bay, to the grassy merge and the poppies burning brightly in drifts.
Here in my yard, nearly two decades later, I stand with the wind, is it the same wind I wonder? blowing through my hair in the same sort of cooling way. The sun is warm overhead. My eyes are again upon those orange petals, fluttering and flickering amongst the green.
I feel that familiar, sweet longing, but I have learned to recognize that feeling as a friend.
I am not regretting something.
I am not sad.
I am just feeling what we mortals are destined to feel.
Our hearts ignite at the sight of beauty, and at times of shared happiness.
That longing sweet is like a distant bell, calling us to remembrance and gratitude.