Poem: 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?

Current Mood: 🙂hopeful
Cyn is Rick's wife, Katie's Mom, and Esther & Oliver's Mémé. She's also a professional geek, avid reader, fledgling coder, enthusiastic gamer (TTRPGs), occasional singer, and devoted stitcher.
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