Wan dolls' false indigo, thrown against the cold,
Comes out water color, faded blue as souls
Laundered and fluttering on a breezy line,
Too late to freeze, too early to dry out
A sky drained of brilliance, stuffed with wet grey-white.
Awaited, spring refuses to be pushed.
Something in its latecoming promises a crush
Of sighs to follow like the mourning iris --
Its petals tissue-thin, folded on themselves,
A skin as delicate as mist or tears
Limp in morning drizzle, soft as daylong fog
That shrouds the dull head in cotton wool.
Iris reticulata: photo by Rasbak, 2005
Iris: photo by Clocks, 2009
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