the iris flowered today and i am not speaking to you.
its purple so deep almost black, and that
is the colour your heart turned, too.
i miss you.
when you gave it to me
you said:
be careful.
but i let weeds grow in its pot;
becoming a miniature, tangled jungle
bright with roaring dandelions.
i ignored you both.
when i weeded it a month ago
i was sure it was dead;
its leaves pallid and feeble,
i tugged at them
with clumsy heavy gloves.
but there it is, flowering anyway
for the first time in years,
an ominous beauty.
i want to tell you about it badly,
but pain holds back my hand
from reaching out to you
overgrown as you are
with dark anger.
