Sylvie Davidson While Waiting for You I decide not to dead-head the perennials, edging the walk. Last fall they lay under frost, curled into their own skin. Winter under blankets, we forgot our outside selves, made loose braids of scarves, strings of guitars, lingering footsteps between houses in the dark. When tangled roots sent up sharp new stems you said they'd been stirring, mysterious, beneath us, and careful, stepped around. They pushed up toward you. I took the comforter from our bed. Now, unfolded into heavy clumps, the peonies cling to their weary parts, even to the tips of petals. Barely hanging, I leave them for you to brush against when you come.