It is winter before we think clearly
of the peonies. Wind rearranges
a light snow over their roots,
filling the faint tracks of the neighbor’s cat.
The wind has forgotten why it feels so unhappy.
I remember that mild June night
we sat out waiting for the moon,
and fireflies appeared, like broken pieces of it
drifting over the peonies.
The flowers had a light of their own
and regarded the world as infants do,
full of great, unknown capacity.
The white peony was cooler than the air.
When I took it in my hand
and held it near your face
I saw your unguarded, nocturnal features,
simple and irrational.
I believed then in what cannot be touched.
The sun rose on peonies
throwing away their petals
as nuns conceal their hair and bodies.
They had served their short time
in the physical world.
Now it is the snow that falls
in great soft petals, spent blossoms
on the year’s darkest day.