On the counter, a lone peony faces me, is intrepid,

having opened its tight beauty with a flush,

burgundy petals cupping one another,

unmoved by last night’s darkness or today’s radiance–

and sunlight hovers as a kiss about its dark bloom.

The peony brings me to it, humble magic.

Luxe in color, rich in form, I have watched over it

the past days and this room is bolstered by

a flower of promise with hidden poignance.

Its deep notes of red, a shock of golden center

vibrate inside eye and mind, in spirit.

It is June now, this is the unveiling summer,

and nature’s savory sweetness lulls me.

A song sparrow shifts from branch to sill,

offers song of praise, then flees;

big leaves of maple twirl the air.

But this single flower, last of its bunch

ushered from market, still beckons.

It recharges my being in the scampering day;

it calms with its spell, the dense layers of finery.

So imagine it: my fingers–with such care–

slip over its stem to globe of blossom

that would fit into a cupped hand,

and the peony without trembling lets go itself,

its feathery shimmers of red fluttering

beyond capture to drift by the

caramel leather bench, to spread

themselves atop a most ordinary floor,

coloring it with a perfection of finality

as words escape me to startle my husband:

Oh no- peony you are bleeding, bleeding all over the floor

and I scoop them to my face

as tears gather and fall, too, without sound,

as love of a peony strikes my heart