Peonies of Giverny

 I love peonies.

When Donald and I went to Paris in 2019 we chose the month of May so we could celebrate our wedding anniversary.

I also had a secret wish that we would be able to see lots of peonies.

But.

Our timing was a little off.

Mother Nature decided the peonies would arrive a little later that year.

There were a few small bouquets available in the floral shops, but we were told to check back in a week or maybe two.

We saw one small plot of peonies in Monet's gardens in Giverny.

Maybe one of these days we'll be able to return when the peonies are in riotous full bloom.

Something to dream about and hope for.

Peonies in Paris.

Random stuff about the letter "P"

A few things I love that begin with the letter "P"  - - -

Princess Annabelle Barley

Pizza

Peonies

Pearls

Paris

Things I don't love that begin with the letter "P"  - - - 

Corrupt lying politicians

People who are too dumb and too selfish to wear a mask and get vaccinated

The End of this Year's Peonies - and no, not all full-bodied peonies need to be staked

Peonies just don't last long enough.


And I'm always sad when their season comes to an end.


Invariably, we have enough rain to help them scatter their petals on the ground and that's what happened this year.

Days and days of rain.


So I snipped a few to enjoy in the house before they were completely beheaded.

By the way, there ARE peonies that can stand strong enough on their own without needing to be staked.  Here's an interesting article in that regard: 

 https://laidbackgardener.blog/2015/06/27/stop-the-flop-no-stake-peonies/

And now I have to wait another year for them to show their fancy frilly selves.

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?

Sharing a few of our peonies with you

Some years the peonies do better than others.

This is a good year.


And I'm glad.


I'm needing some peonies in my life right now.

Have to have a few in the house too.  Especially on my nightstand.

And, this is for my mom.

This was her favorite flower, and what she carried down the aisle at my wedding.

Donald planted a small bed of them in her honor.

Peonies: A Poem 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?

Blooming!

Peeking outside to see the sun and all this is bloom. We've been spared the flooding that has affected so many in our area, and we're thankful.

Peonies make me happy. 

Some are blooming and we still have loads of buds.  

They're short-lived, so we'll enjoy them while we can. 

And then, we'll look forward to seeing them again next year.

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?

Happy Birthday, Mary Oliver

My friend Lesa, knowing I love the work of Mary Oliver, shared this essay with me this morning.  https://bookriot.com/?p=136011 ,  written by Laura Sackton and lovingly tells how Mary Oliver changed her life.  

Laura says all the things so perfectly that Ms. Oliver has given so many of us.  Words we wish we had written, but that we deeply felt.

Happy Birthday, Mary Oliver, 

and thank you.

First peony bloom in our garden

Peonies: A Poem 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?

from New And Selected Poems by Mary Oliver 

Peonies: A Poem 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?