![](https://talesforlife.blog/wp-content/uploads/2024/06/burgundy-peony-dennis-magnusson.jpg)
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
You must be logged in to post a comment.