Sunday, May 27, 2018

Peonies by Mary Oliver

 This morning the green fists of the peonies
are getting ready to break my heart
as the sun rises,
as the sun strokes them with his old, buttery fingers
and they open —
pools of lace,
white and pink —
and all day the black ants climb over them,
boring their deep and mysterious holes
into the curls,
craving the sweet sap,
taking it away
to their dark, underground cities —
and all day
under the shifty wind,
as in a dance to the great wedding,
the flowers bend their bright bodies,
and tip their fragrance to the air,
and rise,
their red stems holding
all that dampness and recklessness
gladly and lightly,
and there it is again —
beauty the brave, the exemplary,
blazing open.
Do you love this world?
Do you cherish your humble and silky life?
Do you adore the green grass, with its terror beneath
Do you also hurry, half-dressed and barefoot, into the garden,
and softly,
and exclaiming of their dearness,
fill your arms with the white and pink flowers,
with their honeyed heaviness, their lush trembling,
their eagerness
to be wild and perfect for a moment, before they are
nothing, forever?


Stella Jones said...

I love peonies too. They are almost as lovely as roses, aren't they. I have a large pink one, but it isn't open yet. I await its entry with anticipation!

Anvilcloud said...

That's pretty wonderful as are the flowers.

Barbara Rogers said...

I was so happy to smell some this year! Beauty is appreciated by those of us with sight, and scent is also!