Poem: Peonies

Peonies
–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?