WHEELER writes:

As I write these words, I am looking at a vase full of this year’s peonies, short-lived beauties that they are. They have passed their so-brief prime and are waiting with simplicity and patience to be reclaimed as dust. I find them more beautiful now than they were when nodding in my wife’s garden, hostesses to battalions of ants. They are beautiful in the way that some old people are beautiful, with their knowing eyes hooded by a map of wrinkles and betrayals. I will let them sit here in their vase as long as I can before I take them outside and place them on the ground up in the woods. I cannot bear to put dead flowers in the trash. There is something melancholy about even the bare possibility that they might be even a tiny bit aware, and that they might be dejected at having to sit in reeking quiet in a plastic bag, among coffee grounds and Discover Card envelopes and potato peelings, looking with flower-hope for something merciful to occur, for a hole to appear in the bag and let in the catalyst of air, hoping for decomposition and a chance to touch holy dirt again.

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