Czeslaw Milosz (30 June 1911 – 14 August 2004 / Kedainiai)
By the Peonies
The peonies bloom, white and pink.
And inside each, as in a fragrant bowl,
A swarm of tiny beetles have their conversation,
For the flower is given to them as their home.
Mother stands by the peony bed,
Reaches for one bloom, opens its petals,
And looks for a long time into peony lands,
Where one short instant equals a whole year.
Then lets the flower go. And what she thinks
She repeats aloud to the children and herself.
The wind sways the green leaves gently
And speckles of light flick across their faces.
The charms of the ordinariness soothe the threat of anxiety.
Comments about this poem (By the Peonies by Czeslaw Milosz )
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