Petals falling from peonies

Scribbling notes on my “great works”

In the quiet of the morning

Petals drop

At the perfect moment

No intention whatsoever

Onto the island of white stone

Selected with our architects

Just as flowers were selected

At Trader Joes

And appreciated by us

Arranged in a vase

And snipped and watered

All so intentional

I’m all for setting intention

Or thought I was

But the flower blooms

And dies quietly

Just because

I put the petals

Beneath the metal

Of the compost bin

In my kitchen that makes

Me feel less like I sin

And to the garden

I later take all the scraps

And leave them to rot

And then later disperse

Beneath the tomatoes

And think about sauce

Rather than about how lost

And at sea I am when

I start to think

Or pour myself a special drink

When ants upon decomposed granite

Have long ruled me

And my planet

Where the flower’s power knows no hour

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8 Responses to “Petals falling from peonies”

  1. Kristen @ Motherese Says:

    You had me at peonies.

    I was just telling Jana that I am scared of poetry, that I find it hard to understand what is going on, what the message is, if there even is a message. But this I get. This is me too:

    “And think about sauce

    Rather than about how lost

    And at sea I am when

    I start to think”

    May all dying flowers inspire such meditation.

  2. TheKitchenWitch Says:

    I love that you find solace in your compost bin!! I remember one spring, my sister’s boyfriend brought over his new golden lab puppy. The puppy was most adorable–until he beheaded every one of my mother’s blooming peonies!

  3. Katrina Kenison Says:

    I appreciate the precision of your poetry — the ability to boil that thick sauce of life right down to the essence of things. A brilliant “reduction” that is, of course, a creative expansion. Bravo!

  4. BigLittleWolf Says:

    I love this:

    I’m all for setting intention

    Or thought I was

    But the flower blooms

    And dies quietly

    I think about all the “noise” we live with now, the desire (or necessity?) to brand ourselves, often so we can simply survive, and how out of touch we are with our own beauty, our place in the grander (quieter) scheme, the acceptance of our blooming and then dying – whatever our intentions.

  5. Being Rudri Says:

    Like Wolfie, these lines also touched me,

    I’m all for setting intention
    Or Thought I was
    But the flower blooms
    And dies quietly.

    I feel the grace of these words. And the aftertaste of sadness.

  6. Wolf PascoePascoe Says:

    Though nothing can bring back the hour
    Of splendour in the grass, of glory in the flower;
    We will grieve not, rather find
    Strength in what remains behind;

    Here’s to the power of that flower’s hour.
    You are one angel-headed hipster.

  7. rebecca @ altared spaces Says:

    The magic of ants and peonies. I hate ants. But peonies are my favorite flower and they must have those ants to help them open. I find poetry simply in this lovely combination even if it makes me cringe a little. Especially then.

  8. summer’s sharing harvest Says:

    […]  My favorite flower:  I love the regal peony juxtaposed against the compost […]

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