She,
caugh ***** but at rest, posing fully attentive,
in her favored chair, a Mies van der Rohe of a
leathery chocolate color, which admittedly is most
accepting of the human frame most welcomingly
but She, gazes relaxedly & rigid, unflinching fixed,
upon on of our Friday flower self-giftations,
an array of eye filling pink and white peonies,
that have mesmerized, entranced and made
her rigidly relaxed, peaceful whimsy on her face
the seasons of life are short, the season of peonies,
is an abbreviation in human terms, perhaps a dot,
a single month a year, in truth overshadowed by
their competition, overly popularized cherry blossoms,
but these 5 P’s, are in her brief of, most pleasuring
pink peony prized possession, remarked upon
with always trace sadness throughout a diminished,
perma~lacking, imbalanced, rest-of-the year, with
sighs emanating from where her essence resides
minutes pass, I too, pass by, dithering to/fro other rooms,
but She, transfixed, breathing quietly, she neither notices,
or acknowledges my temporal interruptions in her moment
of possession by the robust busting opening of the flowers,
an eclectic, electric charging of amentia, for she is
enwrapped and entranced
in an emotional place only that She,
this woman,
shares with no one else, a Universe tiny but all encompassing,
her eyes winnowed and windowed upon the extravagance of
the beauty that comes so briefly…
