This morning
Damp with it all
The purple tongues
Of the Irises
Threaten to speak of painful memories

She always loved the spring
That the Irises announced
Arriving on palates
Of green and violet
Promises of tender possibilities

But, the spring never really changed
Anything of substance and
Colors run in summer rains
Pooling into charcoal swirls

And the Irises died
With a vain promise
Whispered into tomorrow’s
Memories