There are irises again,
full blooms on proud stalks
that tower above the rest.
Hostas are intimidated into smallness
beneath their burgundy glare, I am not.
Last season, perhaps,
but this winter delivered
heaven in a basket; spring
was the definition of fear.
For four months I held death at bay
with wishes, limp fingers, and gauze.
So there are irises again.
What have irises got on me
after a losses like those?
Admittedly, this needs huge amounts of refinement. I just wanted to get something out there to prove to myself that at least the poetic ideas still exist, even if a bit dimmer than I'd like.