The Peony
bush rises from the bare
ground with its shiny green leaves
and sends up long slender
stems with small fists.
Too frail for their
growing burden, they arch over,
bending and bending until
they touch the ground.
I rescue a few to bring inside,
caress the pale pink,
silky, soft petals, blow
off the ants,
their dark attendants
working tirelessly,
and put them in water.
In the garden the rain
beats them down- a tragedy,
white swan feathers lie
about muddied on the ground,
not like the sturdy
daisies, not at all.
Every spring, they arrive
with no thorns, no defenses.
I hold one tenderly to my
cheek.
Peonies don’t count their
petals,
they are lavish and pure
like love.
They are rich without
regard to money.
They just need someone to
hold their necks.