I notice myself growing older most
among other growing things: the green
progression in the garden from furled, tacky
shoots still showing red, to blue hands shingling
the air with lush, deceptive authority,
to the end of summer when even
a dilatory breeze lightens the trees
of another hundred or so gaunt-stemmed leaves.
The fullness of the peony’s magenta bloom
billowing around its heart of saffron shreds rings
in my chest like noon. And the faint way the flower
starts to age, with only an initial ripple
of its outer skin, strikes me like a forgotten
task—something I only half meant to do.