Weeds and Peonies by Donald Hall

I was led to this poem recently—a beauty!  Said to be the first poem that the poet, Donald Hall, was able to write after the loss of his wife, the stunning poet, Jane Kenyon.  Praise the poets of the ages compelled to hold ineffable experiences in the containers of words then share them.  (And lest you forget, there is a poet within each of us.)

Weeds and Peonies

by Donald Hall

(from his collection: Without: Poems 1999)

.

Your peonies burst out, white as snow squalls,

with red flecks at their shaggy centers

in your border of prodigies by the porch.

I carry one magnanimous blossom indoors

and float it in a glass bowl, as you used to do.

.

Ordinary pleasures, contentment recollected,

blow like snow into the abandoned garden,

overcoming the daisies.  Your blue coat

vanishes down Pond Road into imagined snowflakes

with Gus at your side, his great tail swinging,

.

but you will not reappear, tired and satisfied,

and grief’s repeated particles suffuse the air–

like the dog yipping through the entire night,

or the cat stretching awake, then curling

as if to dream of her mother’s milky nipples.

.

A raccoon dislodged a geranium from its pot.

Flowers, roots, and dirt lay upended

in the back garden where lilies begin

their daily excursions above stone walls

in the season of old roses.  I pace beside weeds

.

and snowy peonies, staring at Mount Kearsarge

where you climbed wearing purple hiking boots.

“Hurry back.  Be careful, climbing down.”

your peonies lean their vast heads westward

as if they might topple.  Some topple.