Dew on the peony.
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 the 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 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
That poem is as lovely as the flowers 🙂
Isn’t it though! I found it this morning – quite a feat of synchronicity and serendipity. –C
Nice, Connie. Beyond nice.
jes
Thank you, Jes. I’m officially in love with peonies, but trying to figure out if I want to invest another 15 years into something that diseases easily and is contrary.
–C
the poem is a heartbreaker. so is the flower. I enjoyed this spot of peace in my day.