Peonies + PoetryNiki sat under the cherry tree in her cottage garden on a large teak rocking chair. She was absorbed into another world by the tatty pages of poetry she rifled through. They were well worn and finger-smudged, but she had refused to let her husband replace them because they were, as she put it, well loved.
She absent-mindedly reached for her glass of wine, lifting it but letting her hand freeze mid air as her mind was swept away in another laden sentence. Eventually the gentle weight of the glass reminded her, a jovial chiding that it had been forgotten. She lifted it to her nose and inhaled slowly out of habit, but the air was thick with the