Peonies

PHOTO: Mary van Balen “This morning the green fists of the peonies are getting ready/to break my heart/ as the sun rises,/ as the sun strokes them with his old, buttery fingers/ and they open— / pools of lace,/white and pink…”

from “Peonies” by Mary Oliver

Spring has come early this year. Dogwoods that bloom on Mothers’ Day are already holding crowns of pink and white blossoms. Magnolia flowers have come and gone weeks ago along with crocuses, snowdrops, and grape hyacinths. The May flowers are here now, and the earth, soft and fragrant, calls out to be opened and trusted with seedlings and plants.

Still, I am cautious. I have seen 13″ of snow in April. Yet, this spring feels like it is here to stay. I could not resist and I planted some peonies from my parent’s home. I have the perfect place: A long strip of ground running along the south side of my brick flat. I pulled fistfuls of weeds to make room. The earth gave them up easily, having softened in rains and warm days. Using a borrowed shovel, I turned up a patch of ground large enough to hold the plants, just a few inches high.

Now I wait. I don’t know if they will bloom this year, having been moved from their fifty-year old place between our family home and the neighbors to the north. Maybe they will spend a year keeping memories of blossoms bowing down from sheer weight of their delicate pink lace and deep red silk. Maybe they, too, need time to grieve the passing of an era. No matter. I will wait with them, finding memory and promise in the green and red stems, the deeply notched leaves.

One day, I will gather their blooms, as when I was a child looking for something beautiful to place at our homemade May altar. Mary, I was sure, would savor the glorious explosion of petals and fragrance as I did