Peonies

In a corner of my soul, I yearn to grow peonies.

A neighbour does, and nothing else. In winter the garden stands brown and clean, until thick shoots pre-empt the spring, lush verdancy following them. The buds grow slowly, pale, fat, taunting, the seams splitting early to show a glimpse of the velvet sleeping within. Then one day they have flowered, full, rich, deep burgundy – for a week, for a day, last year only for an hour, until the fickle spring smashes them with hail or rain or jealous winds. And then the green stands, silent, patient, not even waiting, only there, invisible in its familiarity.

I’m not the kind to wait in patience for a day of glory, or to bear the hail that destroys the longed for blooms. I cram my bare earth with cheap bedding, defiant colour, glossy cover, so I may always have cheer, though I shall never have glory. And that’s okay, in its place, I’m content with that … except that in a corner of my soul I yearn to be the kind of person who will grow peonies for their hour of glory.

*Finally* I managed to write something for Miranda Kate’s #MidWeekFlash. Go look at the others (as long as you promise not to come back just to tell me that prompt was a rose).

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