Peony

Peonies Poem

Sweet peas open over hillsides of the dump.

A closed landfill, named for a historic battle 

where Natives buried unaccounted.

Methane feeds flowers, glory sunset, 

launching torches of perfume.

Peonies are my 'besties;  

I've rose patents

certificate Master Gardener, 

but children won't listen

when I strum Richie Blackmore.

Peonies don't care for heavy metal.

Farmer's Almanac spouts herbaceous  

require certain cool nature.

My parents were screamers.

Never hit mine. 

My knee required stitches, 

after two weeks 

dentist said, 

"OOH, too late for pediatrician,

sewing was needed."

Wounds heal with care - not time.  

Treasures prefer relaxing Epsom baths.

Ghosts jump from 

blue plastic tarps brittle, pillows

and bobs needing recycling.

I worked, planned, cried, 

worked planned

did I do enough 

by myself?

Peonies 

Please

tell 

them

your

secrets.

Caroline Gerardo copyright 3/28/2016 Peony Poem