Peonies

This used to be known as Dahlia’s garden by everyone on the block, 
“But the peonies were John’s.” 
The neighbors make sure to tell me, approvingly, 
how they’d see him patiently tending them, year after year, 
as Dahlia ran circles around him. 
“Kept us all on our toes,” they say.

Her love is easy to see all over this garden. 
She even planted dahlias every year at the front of the walk. 
Nothing could be more clearly hers, than this.

Except…

I can feel the slow, patient work of a man long gone 
in the graceful drooping stems of his favorite, fragrant flowers. 
How many times did he find comfort,
retreating into the quiet repetition 
of tending them as they grew, and cutting them as they bent?

How did his fingers feel, year after year, 
as he squeezed clippers 
and brought the summer’s growth down to the ground 
for the whole cold winter?

Could he feel himself, 
eventually, 
returning to the earth, too?

I didn’t know anything about peonies until I moved here. 
They need a killing frost to grow.

I transplanted some, divided and weeping; 
they’re everywhere now.