There isn’t a flower I love more than peonies. They are unnecessarily beautiful. Not just beautiful, but over the top so. They could be half as beautiful as they are, and still worthy of praise. The blooms open gently; the petals large and fragile, threatening to drop at any moment. The thing I love the most, though, is that you have to appreciate peonies when they decide to bloom. Those blooms don’t last long, and they are painfully beautiful. I ache to savor their beauty longer than the time they are present. They demand you admire them in the few hours they’re here each year. They don’t require much care; they almost thrive on neglect. They are their own plant.

In these parts, they generally don’t bloom until May. I recently staked the plants, anticipating the beauty that would appear soon. I left for Florida on Friday for a dear friend’s birthday. The plants were healthy. Lots of greenery and tight, oh so tight, buds. I returned home on Tuesday afternoon (still April!) and to my surprise and delight, many of the plants were in full bloom! I didn’t even bring my luggage in; I immediately went from plant to plant, marveling at the fullness of each bloom, inhaling the intoxicating scent, witnessing the tragic beauty that would soon be gone.