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
"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,
did I do enough
Caroline Gerardo copyright 3/28/2016 Peony Poem