Ill Iris

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Gold greening in the shallows at the end

Arch spanning fluted colors sigh longing

Reeds and rushes wait for the tide and bend

Green manure plowed under still flailing

Life dissolving toxic sweet and helpless

Water, elixir and poison spilling

From the sky, heavens cauldron seeps sadness

From the firmament a Goddess whispers

Rust and mildew on our lamps our madness

Decays smile mask regret, remember

This temporal flower in its beauty

Grows higher than its roots, its stem, somber

As it blows to and fro, when blustery

Soil, the sun, the wind, rain, not hope, and keep it healthy

Trampled underfoot, bruised, and withered, still

Iris in all its beauty is supple

Robust in good weather and bad, until

Man’s lust and greed exhaust and then cripple

Himself and that which he cannot control

A stone across his soul not a ripple

The Iris reaching toward the sun has soul

Spirit, still, always in season, beaming

When and if it ever dies in its hole

I hope it’s left for mulch, left decaying

To feed the land, the hills, and the furrows

Nourish the plants and all life left growing

Man a mole nearsighted trapped and burrows

Buried in his own home, snared by sorrows

JEFF S TURNBULL

 

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