Day 13: Write an elegy for yourself

Elegy for An Iris

There are the purple flowers that yawn like
velvet mouthed lions on the great hill near
the mouth of the sea called Tamal pais in
Coast Miwok or the sleeping maiden.

Some of the flowers will be crushed under
careless hiker’s boots. Others, will wither
into purple mummies by early June
from lack of water.    A few flowers will
breathe in the thick fog that rolls off the bay.
Or, will nestle in the dappled shade of
a redwood tree and live until late fall. 

But one lucky flower will be picked by
a young girl in a yellow sundress who,
after dragging her feet in the dust, will
discover it alone, still glistening
with dew.  And for a second, she’ll forget
all the selves she’s carried up the mountain
and look at the flower as she feels it
is looking at her.  She’ll pick it, but it
will remain alive in the girl’s mind for
several decades until one morning she
is sipping coffee, writing a poem
before her children awaken and she
remembers the small, perfect flower and
it blooms again on the page.