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.
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!
The stunning reminder of juxtapositions in life. Brads knee injury, the soft blowy petals, the stormy sky, a peony’s perfume scent. And a reminder as well how life is temporary. Enjoy it while you can. Thank you James!
Our peonies here are beginning to bloom and how I love their extravagant fullness, rich colours and oh, the scent! I wait for this every spring. Your poem honours this brief moment in our lifetime so well James. xoxo
“We only get so many springs.” Ohhhh, the truth of it. It’s interesting, but not surprising, that many of us don’t think this way in our 20s, 30s, or even perhaps in our 40s or later.
Something about the smell of peonies... that dreamy ant-heavy bloom. This poem reminded me of my parents before they passed, still claiming beauty one cut at a time. Thank you!
“Exuberant blossoms”; so true! One of the things I miss most about the house I had to give up in my divorce process is the peonies, old varieties that came with the old house. One especially: creamy with a yellow center and hints of pink, blooms extra frilly and tall. I even loved what I called “puking peony season”; bless this petal mess!
Beauty--how we need to surrender to it with body and soul. I was with you in your garden with your spring peonies as I remembered the first blooms of my 20 rose bushes in early May. Sometimes I don't want to cut them, so lovely are they and graceful on the branch. But this year, I needed them to perfume the house as you did. There is plenitude out there, so I don't need to deny the roses filling vases inside, pink, carmine red, blushing white, apricot floral. Thank you!
Thank you, James. So lovely. I’m at the age now where I pray for many more springs, one season at a time. And when the next spring comes, I am ecstatic and thank God with each new blossom on whatever perennial I get to witness. 🌺🙏🌺
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!
The stunning reminder of juxtapositions in life. Brads knee injury, the soft blowy petals, the stormy sky, a peony’s perfume scent. And a reminder as well how life is temporary. Enjoy it while you can. Thank you James!
Our peonies here are beginning to bloom and how I love their extravagant fullness, rich colours and oh, the scent! I wait for this every spring. Your poem honours this brief moment in our lifetime so well James. xoxo
“We only get so many springs.” Ohhhh, the truth of it. It’s interesting, but not surprising, that many of us don’t think this way in our 20s, 30s, or even perhaps in our 40s or later.
Carpe diem!
Love this line in your poem, James, "breathe in the
subtle perfume that will soon
soften every room of the house, " . thank you
Something about the smell of peonies... that dreamy ant-heavy bloom. This poem reminded me of my parents before they passed, still claiming beauty one cut at a time. Thank you!
“Exuberant blossoms”; so true! One of the things I miss most about the house I had to give up in my divorce process is the peonies, old varieties that came with the old house. One especially: creamy with a yellow center and hints of pink, blooms extra frilly and tall. I even loved what I called “puking peony season”; bless this petal mess!
❤️Holding calm and beauty before the storm. I love this quiet and powerful reflection. Thank you!
Beauty--how we need to surrender to it with body and soul. I was with you in your garden with your spring peonies as I remembered the first blooms of my 20 rose bushes in early May. Sometimes I don't want to cut them, so lovely are they and graceful on the branch. But this year, I needed them to perfume the house as you did. There is plenitude out there, so I don't need to deny the roses filling vases inside, pink, carmine red, blushing white, apricot floral. Thank you!
Yes. Peonies. Yes. Spring. Yes Really lovely memories
Thank you, James. So lovely. I’m at the age now where I pray for many more springs, one season at a time. And when the next spring comes, I am ecstatic and thank God with each new blossom on whatever perennial I get to witness. 🌺🙏🌺
To cherish spring’s scents,
summer’s light, autumn’s harvest…
Even winter’s chill?