The Sock Drawer - 29. Blush of Iris

Blush of iris

There’s silk in the air.

A sort of thin veil void of weather.

An ethereal cloth, parted everywhere

where rustling leaves, in waving rush,

streak it with a wooden blush,

and petals with a gentle tint stir it softly in the wind.

Fluidly it melts back together.

When sound ripples through it, a rushing faint and viscous,

the satin caress of it, softer than the breeze,

is slightly reminiscent of his voice, when he whispers

over my skin, the life into it, strong as an old tree’s.

Time back I knew it.

How something that is mild and pleasing

can at the same time be so teasing

in a gently coaxing way –

I’ll take advantage, if I may.

Because the soft and living red I’ll take

to feed the spring while I’m awake.

And while I rest, they’ll go on eating

forevermore. But any new blemish

is bound to fade, whether shallow or sore,

because the rich sirupy mood upon meeting

with gentle young Ginger my life will replenish.

Never has a sunny meadow

looked more appealing, neither shadow

seemed more tame.

I am less brave. It doesn’t matter.

Bravery’s for times of danger.

These new times are so much better.