» Poetry
Salvaging Beauty
(for Alan)
Peonies are blooming
to the point of collapse.
They lean into each other
with nothing to say.
Gracing lawn and stones,
thousands of fragrant petals,
extravagant as wings
relinquished.
To make final bouquets, I take
every flower that does not dissolve
at touch—late blooms, buds
surrounding first display—
pinks, bold and blushed;
shameless yellow;
white, center-stained
with crimson.
Every vase chipped
or cracked I fill;
vases on every table
in the house. I leave
the lawn scattered
with petals and stems.
I wait for the scent
of this dying
beauty.