This morning the green fists of the peonies are getting ready <br />to break my heart <br />as the sun rises, <br />as the sun strokes them with his old, buttery fingers <br /> <br />and they open --- <br />pools of lace, <br />white and pink --- <br />and all day the black ants climb over them, <br /> <br />boring their deep and mysterious holes <br />into the curls, <br />craving the sweet sap, <br />taking it away <br /> <br />to their dark, underground cities --- <br />and all day <br />under the shifty wind, <br />as in a dance to the great wedding, <br /> <br />the flowers bend their bright bodies, <br />and tip their fragrance to the air, <br />and rise, <br />their red stems holding <br /> <br />all that dampness and recklessness <br />gladly and lightly, <br />and there it is again --- <br />beauty the brave, the exemplary, <br /> <br />blazing open. <br />Do you love this world? <br />Do you cherish your humble and silky life? <br />Do you adore the green grass, with its terror beneath? <br /> <br />Do you also hurry, half-dressed and barefoot, into the garden, <br />and softly, <br />and exclaiming of their dearness, <br />fill your arms with the white and pink flowers, <br /> <br />with their honeyed heaviness, their lush trembling, <br />their eagerness <br />to be wild and perfect for a moment, before they are <br />nothing, forever?<br /><br />Mary Oliver<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/peonies/
