BY
PEONIES
BETH MCDONOUGH
Through Junes I urge your frail buds –
burst! Offer oriental pallor, pink
your scent delicacy here. After all,
those fast ruddy cousins spill
heavy heads, to ruby up
their shrubbery. Yet, annually you
teeter, nervous into next month, when
you can ravish blackbirds as I holiday
elsewhere. I return in rotting rains
find all your presents opened – already
spent. Nonetheless, I can’t quite
grub you up and now, unexpectedly you
arrest me. Before I reach the stoop-
full sapling’s plums, before the year falls
dark, you stop me with your leaves’ red light.
Gyroscope Review 16-4
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