Some of my mother’s irises always bloom
for Mother’s Day – she never cut them
but a wind-broken stem would be vased
though it saddened her looking so alone.
Flying white standards, bearded with purple falls —
the closest she ever came to royalty.
Royal Storm bearded iris
Calendar autumn. Morning winter. Frost on windshields.
But in this room, spring hydrangea blooms
from a greenhouse or a somewhere spring.
Unthinking, it doesn’t feel out of season,
misplaced in time and space. I do.
Vase of Dahlias, 1883, Claude Monet
I cut dahlias to fill the vase
so that they would greet you today
when you returned from the doctor’s office –
but you didn’t notice them until now.
You said they looked sad and wilted.
