Flowers On Sunday On Monday, Goodnight

I wait all year for this time – when I can devour the peonies, heart and soul.
Indulge in their infinity of pink, as caressable as skin.

Yielding but self-assured,
like any living creature here to fulfill its destiny.

Encounter their improbable, unjustifiable beauty –
a pilgrimage of senses
to meet the force of that tenderness,
unfolding in myself.

Because there is no other way to find their blooms, to inspire their wordless fragrance – except by the light
of your own lovely petal shine.

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