Friday, May 31, 2013 with flowers through the eyes of a poet

Living with flowers this week has been so enjoyable. Peonies and white roses are a couple of my favorite blooms and when they find their way into flower bins, I know summer is here! Their wonderful fragrance filled our loft, the warm pre-airconditioned air kept a strong hold on the scent. Though I still dread the moment when I look over to enjoy one more time the beauty of my simple arrangements, only to notice they are now withered and droopy. The same joy of seeing their beauty turns to sadness. Maybe that is why "stop and smell the roses" is a such an important thing to remember, if only to acknowledge the fleetingness of time. We could catch hold of these moments that try to slip by—and slowly lasso time. The silky symbol of life can bring to our hearts deep gratitude. Flowers do inspire gratitude. For me, a God sized gratitude.

I also love the words of a poet...

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?

"Peonies," by Mary Oliver, from New and Selected Poems (Beacon Press).

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