peonies

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 all 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 the 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?