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Thursday, June 4, 2020

Fill Your Arms With Peonies



                           Peonies
                                                      (By Mary Oliver)

This morning the green fists of the peonies are getting ready
  to break my heart
    as the sun rises,
      and 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 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 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?


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