Close-up of peony blooms.
Image by Lolame from Pixabay

Peonies (In the Garden, Always)

A poem about my mother’s beautiful touches

My mother’s hands, freckle specked,
are small and busy as crab spiders
in the garden, always.

With a dull steak knife she saws stems
of the heaviest peony blooms
who kiss the ground in high spring,
to bring their color in for lunch
with our butter-bread and
bread…