Pale demoiselles in lavender and blue by a fence
drop their veils long enough to glance at me
standing in mute admiration
of the rain and the way
it tilts their bonnets
ever so modestly
in my direction.
The world has no use for their beauty.
Nor do I for that matter.
They are merely flowers, I assume,
unaware of how splendid they look
this drab May morning
when the weight of so many atrocities
drags me toward an early grave.
Still I delight in them,
discreet young ladies of lilac hues
with a touch of yellow where their hearts begin.
So I stay by the fence in the morning rain
and watch the irises watching me.
There are no prisoners here,
no Abu Ghraibs impounding the news.
We are free to rejoice in each other’s very
otherness.
I do not humiliate them
as they do not humiliate me.
They give by design or choice (who knows)
a light and easy beauty.
The way they bloom upon their stems
and lift their faces to the rain —
I could almost kneel in praise
and pray my soul their petals keep.