Irises

Irises

Ashes silently sway like snowflakes
all the long, hard winter
through dark, bitter nights.

I sit and burn
alone. Smoke and stars mingle
overhead. A lone coyote cries.

He creeps through broken
brush and limbs, hoping for fate
to fill his emptiness.

Spring will come.
Not soon enough.

Mary felt this way,
too, her rotting brother
wasting away for four days’ worth
of eternity.

She waited and wept

and lost

hope.

This Easter, tightly wrapped
tips of irises planted
decades ago in my flower bed,

Purple tips like paintbrushes
dipped in royal blood

Wait

Ready to color the whole world,

To unfurl themselves,
to live again.

–Bethany Wallace