Peonies

The Peonies are dying. 
I have watched them 
Pass through the many stages of their lives,
From their first blossoms,
Bright pink and soft to the touch
Like infants curled up asleep in a crib,
To when their petals opened, 
Young girls in their first taffeta party dresses,
To now
As they drop their petals to the floor like snowflakes,
No longer pink, but white as the snow.
Yet
Even in their last vestiges of life, 
Their last moments to grasp at the sun, 
Their last sips of the water that sustains them,
They stand proud of the life they’ve lived. 
Their beauty lingers,
Their petals like lace handkerchiefs fluttering in the breeze,
Can-Can girls raising their skirts,
Japanese geishas dancing with fans, 
Still smell of sugared perfume, 
A whiff behind a petal or two,
As if they are girls dressing for a first date. 
They are still everything they were.
Even as they drop all their petals to the floor.