on wanting it to feel like spring already

beneath us, there are rows of peonies

holding their breath against the absence

of light, inside their dark womb, waiting -

waiting with salivating tongues

for flecks of the season,

when they'll wait to fall in love

with the world, to be known,

every inch of them,

loved and used, or adored, and patient

upon the smallest passing glance,

the hint of a smile,

and waiting to grow from the slightest

touch or charity or affection

that comes in season,

like color comes,

or even life.

and if I could see them, I'd look all the way

down, back deeper even than the roots

to where the soil starts, and ask it,

"Do you know what things

you're building homes for? Or that

so much comes from what you began,

back down inside the mystery

of the core of the earth,

or the dark labyrinths of my own heart

where things rest for seasons...

And so how do you handle that,

all this waiting and seeing,

before the peonies are born?"