Peonies are filthy bugs that
crawl over panes of glass.
I swat at them, but still
they grow back
and swarm together
with renewed vigor.
They congregate,
a mass of plant upon glass,
and hum
like golden hives of bees
though they
are not good architects.
On lonely peninsulas they weep
tangled with their neighbor's neck
hopelessly caught like
fat black flies
or sticky parchment paper.
They bake in moonlight,
sweat beneath the sun,
but under star shine,
they sigh and the tension
leaves their withered selves
in a great exodus of willow
and flutes,
their pining for the sky
gone
as they learn to be content.