I often buy my own flowers. Warren knows I love them but it is not his language. Recently, when we went to the grocery store together he reminded me to look at the flowers but I said, “No, now is the season of flowers in our garden or at the farmers market.” But then, as we stood in line to check out, I really admired the peonies the man in front of us was buying. So I went back and treated myself to the moon-like peonies.

Listen,

I want to tell you something. This morning
is bright after all the steady rain, and every iris,

peony, rose, opens its mouth, rejoicing. I want to say,

wake up, open your eyes, there’s a snow-covered road

ahead, a field of blankness, a sheet of paper, an empty screen.

Even the smallest insects are singing, vibrating their entire bodies,

tiny violins of longing and desire. We were made for song.

I can’t tell you what prayer is, but I can take the breath

of the meadow into my mouth, and I can release it for the leaves’

green need. I want to tell you your life is a blue coal, a slice

of orange in the mouth, cut hay in the nostrils. The cardinals’

red song dances in your blood. Look, every month the moon

blossoms into a peony, then shrinks to a sliver of garlic.

And then it blooms again.

–Barbara Crooker, “Listen,” from Line Dance,
copyright © 2008 Word Poetry.