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Peonies
Sheryl Guterl

Extravagant bright pink blossoms,
explosions of sweet scent, in a bouquet
from my husband, reminded me
of my grandmother, alive in a childhood memory.

She bends over her garden,
sturdy black shoes at the end of her stocky legs,
full body draped in flowered housedress,
protected by ruffle-trimmed apron.

Her white, tight-permed hair
frames round, soft, pink face.
Wire-rimmed glasses aid
her bright blue eyes.

A bee buzzes near her ear.
unconcerned, or unaware, she leans
forward to touch a flower,
cups it in her gnarled hand.

”Come here, dear.” She beckons
me to her side, extends her other hand.
I grab it, curl my tiny fingers
around her bony knuckles.

Grandma lifts the blossom to my nose.
I sniff; it’s a heavy sweetness,
almost chewable, delicious,
like Iowa air after a spring rain.

My nose intrudes farther between petals.
There’s a tickle, a movement.
I jump back to see an ant,
then another, then so many.

Years and experience have left me wondering:
Why must there be ants in the peonies,
mosquitoes on a balmy spring night,
loss after love?

At the lake, spring ducklings
dutifully paddle behind their mom.
Each day the line of small ducks is shorter.
Snapping turtles feast.

In the desert, baby bunnies
frolic near their sibs and parents,
nibbling on tender plants
until a coyote pounces.

Bright pink peonies flourished
with dogwoods, azaleas,
rhododendrons, and bleeding hearts
the day my husband’s heart stopped.

—
Sheryl Guterl writes from New Mexico and New Hampshire. Retiring to the Southwest after a career as an educator in New Jersey, she appreciates sunshine, higher mountains, and less winter ice. Her cabin on a lake in wooded New England provides inspiration and refreshment with cooler summers.

Sheryl’s poetry is found in The RavensPerch, Iris Literary Journal, Deep Wild, Bethlehem Writers’ Roundtable, Capsule Stories, 3 Elements Review, and several local anthologies.

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Have you read these poems:
Ditched by Sarah M. Brownsberger
Concentric Futures by Kim Stafford

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