Peonies

i.

 Not long ago,
I felt like every flower
should have a purpose,
a provision.
Little lavender chive spikes
to sprinkle on scrambled eggs, or
small yellow stars that
turn into tomatoes.

Coneflowers or phlox
would’ve worked
given their lingering blossoms,
lasting, like a long novel.

But recently,
it’s the peony:
providing no sustenance,
vulnerable to the elements,
just a brief burst of beauty,
tender, and needy,
but unashamed.

ii.

I want to emerge from sleep,
a bee, buzzing out
through a slit in the screen,
pitching myself at a pistil,
letting petals envelop me,
heady, and thick with dew,
held, in its steady base,
like I would hold it
up, cupping it in my palms,
without holding it back.