Last Day at Brinkwood
        "To become aware of the possibility of the search is to be onto something."
                        —Walker Percy

A peony busts through the mulch, its leaves
drooping and purple veined, the stem the same.
Hard freeze tonight— the bud won't burst its frame
this year, unclench the red and white it weaves,
this one the first this spring to periscope.
What spiked this bulb and coaxed it through the soil
like the Second Coming, the uncoiling
of arms, the end of days when we will lope

for one last time on Earth and bathe in fire
and burn in lakes? Lost Cove is spuming with desire
below: the frothy streams, the squirrels in rut,
a yelping hen, a tom's vibrato, saltatory strut.
This early bulb will wait another year
to let loose what it sucks back in tonight: the coming on we fear.

Tweet
Copyright © 2022 Adam Vines All rights reserved
from The Southern Review
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission