Peonies 

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 their 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?

Mary Oliver