One Peony
One peony has blossomed late. To hold
Her globe of fragrance up in bravery
Is what she wants. Those petals would enfold
The smiles of other pinks and there would be
The others’ laughter, if she had her way.
Alone she meets the sunshine, though. Alone
She holds her court in queenly sway,
The sway of loveliness and breeze. Her throne
Is emeraldic, yet in solitude
She reigns seed-pearled with sparkling dew that could
Be bitter if she let her beauty brood.
She wouldn’t want her grin misunderstood:
It is a thing of courage, nothing more.
Her crimson heart’s a coolly hidden sore.