Peony

A full and frilly peony:
Temporal, fleecy, sumptuous,
Neither peacock-proud nor grossly garish
Like a pansy benched in a mulchy berm
Or a ballgown orchid embracing the dam
Of a bulging bodice.
Its stem . . . the climate's calligraphic quill--
Driblets from overnight downpours still drip,
Transparent inks tremble and squiggle and wreathe
And scribble impulsive, illegible odes.
Lo, how like the rose it uncurls,
Though frailer, more intricate,
Too dainty for fragrance, and never "e'er blooming,"
For in afternoon heat, it wearies, it wizens,
The petals turn brown and putrefy,
The stoutish calyx spoils and withers,
And like a friendship, once strong and supple,
But blarneyed along well past its prime,
In quickening stages the exquisite cedes
Its virtues to horror,
And beauty succumbs to shabby burlesque.
One should scissor such precious heads off early
Before the rot and ruin set in,
And rely on future bursts of brilliance
To take their place in years to come.