The periods didn’t exist in the original version; it is my attempt to reproduce the spacing of the poem given html limitations.
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 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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timeasmymeasure
Peonies
Date: 2007-06-11 03:37 am (UTC)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 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?