Flowers of time:

one the color of blood,

one pale blue and frilly

as an organdy gown,

one black as the soul

the nuns drew

in colored chalk.

If you dreamed an iris,

you would find it here.

 

Public domain photo by Klaus Beyer

You strangle

on the sweet air; it is

the room your mother left

for the party; now

you leave for parties,

you leave

little ghosts of scent

behind you. Men

wear you like a rainbow

on their dark wool arms.

 

Public domain image by wpclipart.com

 

When your many colors fade,

bouquets of purple irises

will bloom beneath your skin.

You will lean to the earth alone.