When I was seven years old,
I found out
there are symphonies
inside peony petals
chanting in a voice
that sounds like the smell
of the month of May.
Jesus speaks, in pinkness,
to little girls like me,
who hear blossoms in gardens
grown-ups walk by too quickly.
The peony whispered.
I stopped to listen
on our walkway steps.
The flower told me,
“God wants you to know
that his love is so great—
you never have to worry.”
But then I looked at
the ticking watch hands
all leather bound to my wrist.
I ran for our bus stop,
even though the bus never
arrived at its scheduled time.
Pearl (2009)