The Peonies' Lament
A friend asked me recently why I create my headpiece art with decaying flowers. “You could make such beautiful things with fresh flowers!” they said. I could, yes. And I have, occasionally. But while my work honours every part of the cycle of life, I prefer to focus on the least-popular and often-overlooked latter phase; the Crone has always called out to me and influenced my creative processes.
Give me a wilted marigold that fed countless bees in my garden over the summer. Give me its memories of whispering wings when autumn creeps in. Give me a handful of its winter-ripened seeds to offer to the earth come spring. Give me its stories to carry far and wide. Those, to me, are such beautiful things.
I wrote and shared the poem below in November 2020, accompanied by a self-portrait series of the same title, as a reflection on social media’s obsession with youth—or, more specifically, the idealization of flawless beauty and eternally (more so, artificially) youthful looks. Perhaps you remember it, if you’ve been following my work for some time. Ironically, I didn’t use actual flowers for the series, inspired as it was by the peony seed heads in my dormant garden.
I have yet to rework the poem into song format; maybe I won’t, maybe it’s meant to live on as words without melody. Maybe that’s why it never wafts into my brain when I’m sitting at the piano. But I do recite it to myself often when I’m working in the garden and the art shed.
The Peonies’ Lament
They wake from their long slumber
as hungry roots stretch and swell
Pastel buds yield their mysteries
to the morning dew
Brazenly they unfurl, shouting their perfection
to all who would touch
and taste
and leer
Under midday sun, the first blush of youth
becomes bent neck
weighed down by quiet loathing
of every unspoiled, more-fragrant bloom
Greedy for the adoration
that fades with the waning hour
Obstinate, they cling to a season
that is no longer theirs to rule
At dusk, heads bowed in fervent prayer
they tremble
they plead
they weep
Their nectar spent
Their petals fallen
Their lamentations eclipsed
by night-scented song
Unmourned, they crumble—
sustenance for sleeping sisters
as hungry roots stretch and swell
