Peony Presence
I did not become aware of peonies until a friend in Atlanta shared the Mary Oliver poem I've copied below. After reading it, I realized I'd never actually seen a peony, but I very much wanted to. It took a move to Michigan before I encountered one first hand. There was a house tour scheduled for our newly renovated Victorian and our part-time neighbor Helen thoughtfully brought a big bunch of pink peonies from her garden in Grand Rapids for a table centerpiece. I was smitten. Each year we've been here she shares her abundance with me and each year I paint them. I'm also growing some of my own but, so far, none of them are as pink and juicy as Helen's. Except in paintings.
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?
-“Peonies” from Mary Oliver, New and Selected Poems (Beacon Press).
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