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

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 silky life?

Do you  adore the green grass, with the 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?