I wait for spring,
for the peonies to bloom;
on the day the peonies fall
I bury myself in the sorrow of spring’s demise.
On a day in May, hot and humid,
when the fallen petals lie withered on the ground,
my burgeoned hopes collapse:
all peony trace is gone from heaven and earth.
I have 360 days to mourn.
I wait for sorrow’s bright spring,
for the peonies to bloom again.