A day of cloud

stooped blooms

slate sky

a chance to breathe

hold the fragrance

of a rose

see peonies

bruised and bashed by wind

—as most years—

allium and iris

disappear in days

lost early

 

all too often

we are peonies

roses

allium and iris

we too bowed

by breathlessness

pain loss grief

 

bruises mottling

inside and out

 

battered by events

we pause—

drink—

dry—

blossom—

grow                                                         Polly Stretton