The peonies in full bloom reach out of their bed, bending toward the earth, green and grassy all around.
Before the rain, they stood upright and proud.
Something in the air, the gray of the sky, the lightest of raindrops, brings them down.
I wonder why we, here, loose our peonies in such a way.
More formal folk tend and support their blooms.
Is there laziness in our souls?
Or are there deep memories of sprawling peony beds?
I remember peonies laid tenderly on grasses green and on humps of bare earth,
Bushes at iron gates, bushes at brick pillars, bushes at slender wooden posts,
Green foliage reaching high, heavy flowers bowing.
Drums and bugles sound in the distance, then advance in slow parade to and beyond the gates.
In the silence that follows, words are spoken, heads are bowed.
Rifle shots pierce the silence and echo in the hills and a single bugle sounds a call to rest.
My peonies are bending to the earth with the fullness of the life they can hold.
Soon, they will wither and cast petals.
When petals have showered the earth, the stems will reach skyward again,
Now promises of the future hidden among the showy branches of this short summer.
My peonies are bending to earth,
dotting the greens above and below with color.
Aren't they perfect for Memorial Day?
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