Sleepy flower

⏱ ~4 min reading

In the small garden near the old house, various flowers grew. There were delicate daisies with white-white petals. There were daisies with yellow centers. There was a tall blue bell and a round purple dahlia. And in the middle of the garden, on a thin stem, swayed the smallest and most tender flower - the Poppy.

The poppy was red, like the evening sun. Its petals were thin and silky, and in the middle was a soft dark seed. During the day it opened wide and presented its face to the sun. A bee would fly to it, sit on the petals and collect pollen. A butterfly would fly and drink a drop of sunshine. The poppy was happy to see every guest.

But when the sun began to set, when the shadows in the garden became long and soft, something special happened to Makivka.

She was starting to yawn.

At first, a little. Her petals trembled slightly. Then a little more - the petals slowly folded down, one towards the other. And finally - the Poppy completely folded her thin silk petals into a little red house. Inside, like in a cozy cradle, hid her little heart.

This was her cradle. Her bed. Her home for the night.

All the flowers in the garden do this. They all fold their petals for the night. The dandelion curls into a tight yellow ball. The bellflower lowers its head and becomes like a bell from a tower. The daisy carefully closes its white petals around a yellow heart, like hands around a fire. The dahlia hugs itself with its outer petals like a blanket.

Every flower has its own night. Each has its own bed.

Do you know what flowers dream about?

Poppy has many good dreams at night.

She dreams of a little bee that will fly to her tomorrow morning. The bee will be in a yellow-and-black dress, with transparent wings. She will sit on a petal and politely ask: «Can I?» And Poppy will nod affectionately. And they will be together — the bee and the flower — in the warmest morning rays.

She dreams of a butterfly. A large one, with blue spots on its wings. It will slowly land next to her, fold its wings and rest for a while with Poppy. It will talk to her about its long travels. It will tell her how it flew across the path, how it flew over the fence, how it was looking for her, the reddest flower in this garden.

She dreams of warm rain. Tiny, tiny droplets that gently tap her petals. Not too much. Not scary. Just — drip-drip, drip-drip, as if someone were playing tiny drums. Poppy loves such dreams.

And she still dreams of the morning. How a new day will come. How it will slowly open its petals — first a little, then more, then wide-wide. How a small insect, a ladybug, red with black spots, will sit on it, and slowly crawl along the petal. How the sun will warm its drop of dew, left over from the night, — and that drop will shine like a tiny mirror.

It will all happen tomorrow. And now it is night.

It is quiet and peaceful in the garden. Somewhere in the grass a tiny cricket is chirping - it is his lullaby. Somewhere high in the sky the stars have lit up. The moon has peeked out through the branch of an apple tree and has gently illuminated the garden with a thin silver light.

All the flowers are sleeping together. They are like a family. A poppy from the edge. Next to it is a daisy. Behind it is a bell. Then there are daisies and dahlias. All have closed their petals. All are quietly breathing their flowery breath - gentle, fragrant, delicate.

The night embraced the garden with its soft wing. It placed only dewdrops on the grass - like a mother puts down a blanket.

And you sleep now. Just like Poppy sleeps. Just like all the flowers in the garden sleep.

In the big world, you dream of your morning. It will come — for sure. With warm milk. With a sunny bunny on the wall. With your mother, who will come into the room and whisper softly, softly: "Good morning, my flower.".

And tomorrow you will bloom again. You will open your eyes. You will smile. You will present your face to the morning.

But now — fold the petals. Close your eyes. Breathe quietly.

Good night, little flower. Sleep.