It’s hard to describe how much I love peonies! 
I love their beautiful pinks, ranging from the palest shell 
to the most shocking fuchsia (which I didn’t have any of). 
I love their hundreds of petals.
I love the way the droop over from their weight. I love their subtle scent. I love the way some of the white ones are tipped in bright pink.
I love the way some of the pink ones have yellow centers. 
The peonies around here got pounded by a big storm the other night and are looking a bit bedraggled. But I love them regardless.
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 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?
from New And Selected Poems by Mary Oliver
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