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?