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Posts Tagged ‘peony’

Like the Peony

Posted in Uncategorized, tagged , , , on February 27, 2024| 12 Comments »


 
Like the peony that opens
and opens and opens,
this is how I want to meet life—
surviving the cold
then returning to bloom
again. Again.
That vibrant. That many-petaled.
Embarrassingly fulsome,
as if life just can’t
get enough of itself.
Truth is, life cuts you to the ground
and you lose all but the roots.
Sometime you lose those, too.
How is it, then, comes
the chance to bloom again,
to be less master of life,
and more servant to the life
that pushes through.
I want to be fluent in blooming.
I want to trust the possibility
of sweet spring perfume
as much as I trust
the inevitability of frost.
I am so grateful for beauty,
albeit brief,
for the chance to be naked,
tender, soft.
 

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Feeling the Need to Protect Myself

Posted in Uncategorized, tagged , , , on May 1, 2020| Leave a Comment »

 

 

 

Sometimes defensiveness

has lovely side effects. A tree,

for instance, produces resin to heal

a wound caused by insects or fungi.

Golden and aromatic,

the sticky ooze protects the tree

from disease and injury

and eventually might transform

into amber.

But that takes millions of years.

And happens only after damage is done.

 

Another choice, I tell myself,

another choice is to do

what the peony bud does—

create nectar for ants

so they will invade it, and then,

using genuine sweetness

to make friends,

accepting the protection they offer.

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Budding

Posted in Uncategorized, tagged , , , , on May 26, 2019| 4 Comments »

 

            (with thanks to Donnalee for the peony buds)

 

 

Sitting with the peony

whatever is red in me reddens

and whatever in me is fist

loosens its grip

and whatever was sorrow

finds no mirror

and whatever is grateful

becomes fragrant

and I don’t even think

to remember

it won’t last forever,

all I know is

inside,

sweet nectar.

 

 

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After the Poetry Retreat

Posted in Uncategorized, tagged , , , , on November 11, 2017| Leave a Comment »

 

 

 

That peony, full bloom

and all honey perfume,

by the time she walks

in the front door again

she’ll have remembered

how to be dandelion,

her feet taprooted

to the kitchen floor,

her face common gold,

her hands soft rubbery green.

This soil only grows

what it knows to grow.

At night she dreams in pink.

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Impossible Haiku

Posted in Uncategorized, tagged , , , , on April 23, 2012| 4 Comments »

no blooms—
still, through a round door
sweet scent of peonies

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