yes, we do hurry into the garden

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 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 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

Comments

[ekhlong]

I never thought much about peonies until Eric's grandfather passed away last year. Eric's grandparents had helped his parents planted a few peony bushes in their back yard, pink and white. Today they are huge and beautiful. I'll never forget going to pick some of the flowers with Eric's sister to make a bouquet for the funeral. We thought it fitting that the flowers would be in bloom on the day Eric's grandfather passed away. They truly are a beautiful flower. Thanks for sharing the poem.