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,
their red stems holding
all that dampness and recklessness
gladly and lightly,
and there it is again —
beauty the brave, the exemplary,
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 exclaiming of their dearness,
fill your arms with the white and pink flowers,
with their honeyed heaviness, their lush trembling,
to be wild and perfect for a moment, before they are
from New And Selected Poems by Mary Oliver
I posted the first verse of this ethereal poem by Mary Oliver when my tree peonies first opened. I wanted to save the rest of the poem for when the herbaceous peonies came out to play – and they have, indeed. They have been frolicking in the front gardens, under the tree peonies, over the ferns, and atop all else that awaits blossoming, and, yes, dear reader, I did “hurry, half-dressed” in my pajamas, enjoying their “honeyed heaviness” enjoying their perfect moments, for they shan’t last long, but, oh, while they are here – what joy they are to behold.