Poem from 1999 or so, heavily revised.
In the year I was Thirty-eight
the fragile man I was then
looked at the peonies
in the backyard
and the progress of the year
seemed so fast
I thought about how quickly
those pink and white heads
would droop
and drop their petals
into the grass to fade and decay
I feared
that if the year of thirty-eight
continued this pace into
my year of forty-forty-one-forty-two-beyond
I feared that every thing I had learned
by putting myself together
would come undone
This is the year
I have turned thirty nine
The peonies did not die
as they always have before
The path has stitched every piece of me
at last into one person
and it is harder for most to tell
that I have ever been split
I have always known what I was
and have walked around in fear
of stitches beginning to pull
and seams giving way
In the year
I turned thirty nine
I have learned
something more
Remembering today the scent of peony
Savoring the memory of those incandescent blooms
opening and surprising me with the heat of their pink
and the ice regalia of their white
that would fade so quickly
I have realized
that in all these memories
there is still enough of youth to make
my mortality
irrelevant
I have learned that thirty eight
was an opening and not an end
I have realized the sweetness of the peony
was the product of youth spent lavishly
secure in the knowledge
that not only would the dark strength
of the leaves and roots last
and not only would the cool shade below the leaves
last and refresh
Not only would the roots that hold so lightly to the earth
leave their legacy anyway after the year’s efforts
were spent and dried and gone
In this year I am thirty-nine
and the peonies have died but not as they have before
I have learned to rejoice
in how once the blooms and the leaves were gone
and the grey strong winter had buried their bones
the actual plants in the fullness of their beings
have risen again
from the poor soil along the garage
This is the year that has opened
my eyes my nose and my throat to the world
The year I passed through fear
to let my seams bulge and stretch
The year my senses
have saved me from falling apart
