Peonies and Poetry

Sep 3, 201322 min read

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PoetryOD

Published: Sep 3, 2013

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Thistle, Snap Dragon, Poppies, and Rose by heartMelinda

Mature Content

Peonies & Poetry by PoetryOD

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Niki sat under the cherry tree in her cottage garden on a large teak rocking chair. She was absorbed into another world by the tatty pages of poetry she rifled through. They were well worn and finger-smudged, but she had refused to let her husband replace them because they were, as she put it, well loved.

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She absent-mindedly reached for her glass of wine, lifting it but letting her hand freeze mid air as her mind was swept away in another laden sentence. Eventually the gentle weight of the glass reminded her, a jovial chiding that it had been forgotten. She lifted it to her nose and inhaled slowly out of habit, but the air was thick with the heavy scent of roses and the faint trace of the poppy-red petunias that she had planted in Spring.

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She was in her own little world and the glass only touched her lips briefly when she finished a poem before she realised she needed both hands to turn the page and the glass was abandoned again.

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The sound of the paper crinkling was almost invisible, bedded down amid the sounds of birds calling each other to come home, but she heard it and sighed contentedly nonetheless.

"Niki?" she heard him shouting. She pouted slightly, an automatic petulant instinct that came upon her when she found herself secluded in her secret place. She didn't want to go back to reality, where dishes got dirty and the baby-headed peonies needed pruning and extra lime grit turned into their cribs beneath the hall window.

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She raised her feet onto the edge of the chair, making herself small and childlike. Remembering how she had dreamt of lazy September days like this when she was younger. How she'd ached for a small corner of the world to call home, a true home, for mind body and soul, and most importantly; peonies and poetry.