It's our weekend to visit our friend in prison. So no blog today. Instead, I leave you this poem. Newly minted.
A Peony Bursts
Somewhere between the kitchen and the front door, the blowzy peony lets go,
unnoticed.
On the way back from the greenwaste can,
a trail of false scarlet.
I leave the outdoor offering to wind, dew—
the helpful scatterings of nature.
Petals on the stoop and just inside the door,
I gather into one palm. They are soft,
remarkably fragrant.
Frangible. I roll them in my hand,
conjure visions of bone dice and tea leaves.
No use. The petals remain
inscrutable.
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