ODE TO BLACK IRIS

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Ebon bud swells, unfurls
Cannot contain
A passion of purple

Whose sinuous curves
Trace forbidden desire
Wild, yet discreet.

Eager tongues of it
Savor luscious hues
Of eggplant, plum and wine

As gossamer skin
Its cool, velvet sheen
Seduces eyes and touch.

Like a midnight tryst
This stolen moment
Sates a yearning soul

Then, etched in mind’s eye
Yields to memory
Wilts and falls.

FREE AT LAST

A month ago, this soil was frozen over three feet deep. Just last week it gasped under 16 inches of snow.

At long last, like so many eager chicks bent on freedom, spring flowers—daffodil, iris, Siberian squill—peck through earth’s crumbly shell, beaks agape for spring’s soft rain and sun.