Cutting Peonies
Cutting Peonies
He slips on his flip-flops
and with an injured knee
hops down the porch steps,
gripping clippers in his hand.
Without a word between us,
I know what he’s about to do
and dig out a few Ball jars,
fill them with cold water
then go out myself, ready
to receive the blowsy pink
peonies he cuts, one by one,
trimming off their leaves
before passing them to me.
I lean in, and for the first time
this spring, breathe in the
subtle perfume that will soon
soften every room of the house.
A storm is brewing behind
the lid of gray clouds piled
above us, a pummeling rain
about to reduce each blossom
to a bare green nub. But we
are busy down here, gathering
evidence, building our case
for a beauty that saves
simply by existing.
I don’t know why I had resisted cutting any peonies this spring. I’ve been down with a cold for a week, and was about to head out of town for work as soon as I felt better. I think I saw the mess of those pink petals scattered on the window sills and floor, waiting to be cleaned up when I returned, and told myself not to bother. Luckily, one morning, Brad grabbed his clippers and stepped outside before the approaching storm. Knowing without words what he was doing, I dug out a few Ball jars and filled them with cold water, then followed him outside. He cut the huge exuberant blossoms, one by one, and trimmed off their leaves before handing each one off to me to place in the jars. Shaking out any stray ants, I buried my face in each one and let myself awaken to their sweet perfume. It was as if I’d forgotten what it was like to breathe, and then suddenly remembered. I thought about how my best friend had just messaged earlier that day, asking me to send some photos of the garden. “We only get so many springs,” she wrote. Now, each time I come into the kitchen to make coffee, I’m greeted by the sight of the peonies, having opened even wider than before. Now, when I carry bags of groceries up from the car, I remember to stop and inhale the scent of spring, the brevity of another season on Earth. I no longer worry about shriveled petals littering the floor, or seeing bouquets of bare, nubby stems sticking out of jars of murky water. Only so many springs, I say to myself, as I step outside in bare feet, across the warm mulch, to hold one more peony up to my face, breathing them in before they’re gone.
Invitation for Writing & Reflection: Write about a moment you surrendered fully to beauty, even if you felt resistance at first. You might borrow my friend’s line, “We only get so many springs . . . “ and see where that leads.
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Oh, peonies! Thank you for this poem, James, and for this window into your rituals of love.
Our old home in Montana had the most glorious pink peonies. I remember the spring I cut some for my newborn son, how he laid in his basket and watched them for hours. That wee babe is now 24. I wrote a birthday poem for him, and his peonies.
First Peonies
Of course they're your favorite flower
for they claimed you as one of their own.
You spent your first weeks tucked
underneath their pale petals, nestled
in your basket in our little yellow house.
Your first scents were perfumed by their
bouquet, veiling your world in their color.
You, like the peony, have your own
particular beauty – strong and sturdy,
full and many petaled, hardy and delicate.
The flowers bloom into their fullness
until the petals cover the tablecloth
with their dried pink confetti, but the
scent lingers on for days. Every
year, the peonies bloom. Every year,
I wish you the same.
Oh, the hush of this poem, and the unrushed flow! Seamless from first to last word. The intimate communion of two soul-mates who, without the need for speech, perform their ritual necessary to the rhythms of weather and season. James, a treasure of a poem!