Waiting For Spring in the Continued World

I have been thinking, brother, of the white peonies

that bloomed that spring our mother died

a ragged splendor along the boundary line

having survived so many hard winters

& being green fires, green bonfires at midsummer

despite the North Dakota storms, holding their own

electricity & stubbornness. Not, you understand

that they are symbolic, or anything more

than their own growing miracle, under which

sometimes the smallest birds sheltered

& other things as briefly defenseless.

They were beautiful. We did not own them

especially at the end, while the hospital

machines shuddered, while the lights went out

& the clear hearts broke open.

(some notes to this: it was published a few years back in Boulevard. I felt like tossing it here now, because I have just passed the day which brought about the writing of this poem.
Won't be long before my mother's birthday, when my brothers and sister in law and I gathered in a North Dakota cemetary to gently place my mother in her grave. Yeah, my partner has always complained all my poetry dwells on death and/or love. Well, gosh, those are the pivotal points of the universe.) I wrote a bit about my mother on my other blog, here.