Stands of bearded iris, purple in mourning
Spring up, early, among their cool green speartips,
Pale and pointed, palmlike, though no one’s picked them,
Criss-crossed the fronds, blessed, behind a crucifix.
Still two weeks to go till the last frost warning.
Evening sunlight pools its weight on this walkway,
Mossed and softly crumbling, the old bricks handmade,
Monk-made—German monks, sent from the motherhouse
Years and years ago, so many years, turning.
Here, beguiled, the iris again rush the spring.
One late freeze, and this violet brevity
Will turn to glass and shatter if you touch it.
Holy Thursday Mass: the church bells ring out now.
Iron tongues, they cry a word past our knowledge.
Shadows steal by inches out of the maples,
Greening, gold, and filled with the sunset. Winter
Fingers the world one last time because it can.
—Sally Thomas
Image by Alabama Extension. Image Cropped.
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