All my poems can't be about medicine,
 especially when I consider
 a dozen peonies in a crystal vase.
 Three have opened-one pure white
 like the coat I wear at work, the second
 red as marrow, and the third turned away,
 blushing pink, as if embarrassed
 by the naked beauty the others display. 
Below the flowers, buds are balled up
 and fringed with scarlet, ready to unpack
 their petals and show off to July
 like medical students who became doctors
 one week ago, so fresh, so green.
 I drain the warm gray water, pour in the new.
 And to appreciate the fragrance of flowers
 who don't show off their sweetness, I bury
 my face deep inside their bodies,
 the petals smooth and damp, like skin.