Rose-red peony and downy white, vivid under the sun,
swollen and drooping in the rain,
you were my mother’s favorite flower.

My child eyes watched her bury her face in you,
and even my father, a farmer’s son with one eye on the corn,
tended and adored you.

You carry me through my day, as the faces of my children do,
surpassing every word I write
and the fear of death running forever in my veins.

Of all the flowers I might become, I choose you,
bold rose-red, gentle downy white.

Let me whisper to you, peonies. I’m so tired, and sad.
In you I put my faith that life flows back after it ebbs a way,
that after we die, or unwittingly empty ourselves of joy,

the honey-scent of peonies will return
to obliterate winter and darkness,
and fill the sky with rose-red peony, downy-white.