Peonies are the only flower I care for and when I saw them from the window yesterday, tumbled and heavy along a fence, fully exploded, nodding at the ground, hanging their heads but not yet spoiled, I remembered a summer (maybe seven years ago, or was it ten?) I wasn't sure our love would come again, and here I am, almost kissing the grass like that, bursting and rich, cracked all over like broken cake— makes you cry but still sweet. Deborah Garrison
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