Did I think of the face
of someone I love
in the bright greenhouse,
the buttery white peony in my hands,
my nose and warm breath,
small winds in her ears?
I did, and I thought of Jane
when she wrote “Peonies at Dusk.”
The comfort of her voice
though I’ve never heard it aloud.
Is it you? Are you mine?
I spoke to the bloom’s buried center.
For a moment I couldn’t believe
a creature could have known me
before I’d arrived here, my hands
heavy somehow in contrast
to her gentle mane, her sweet lashes.
Not that she could have all of me,
or I all of her, but that I could
look at her and know
there was no turning away.
What grace brought her here
so I might know and imagine
the enormity of the unfettered heart?
I didn’t know her then.
I could hardly remember her face.
I don’t know you yet.
I wanted to say more, but I know
the feeling of trying all day
to lift my head, of love
and light so bright
I could hardly bear it.
