An iris blooms
Without thought,
Without after-thought.
Questions not
Its flowering,
Asks not
Admiration,
Knows nothing
Of its hue,
But accepts commentary
As its rightful due.
Picked for its bloom,
In this its moment,
The days of radiance
Are short.
The petals fall out
Here and about,
For irises do not traffic
In fear or in doubt.
An iris is an iris,
For this short moment
Ever itself.
It blooms once
And is picked by stealth
Then forgotten
By the unknowing self.
