Pamela Sinicrope

The Winter Gardener

In Minnesota, when snowfalls layer
like sedimentary rock and happiness falls
below zero, I dream of peonies rising.
I see clusters of large red balls—like clown noses,
and I can't help but smile

as they bounce and sway toward the sun.

They snore below the cold as crimson eyes root
upward from a perennial world that slurps

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