Wild Iris

Love Should Grow Up Like a Wild Iris in the Fields

Love should grow up like a wild iris in the fields,

unexpected,

after a terrible storm,

opening a purple mouth to the rain,

with not a thought to the future,

ignorant of the grass and the graveyard of leaves around,

forgetting its own beginning.

Love should grow like a wild iris but does not.

Love more often is to be found in kitchens at the dinner hour,

tired out and hungry,

lingers over tables in houses where the walls record movements,

while the cook is probably angry,

and the ingredients of the meal are budgeted,

while a child cries feed me now and her mother not quite hysterical says over and over,

wait just a bit,

just a bit,

love should grow up in the fields like a wild iris

but never does really startle anyone,

was to be expected,

was to bepredicted,

is almost absurd,

goes on from day to day,

not quite blindly,

gets taken to the cleaners every fall,

sings old songs over and over,

and falls on the same piece of rug that never gets tacked down,

gives up,

wants to hide,

is not brave,

knows too much,

is not like an iris growing wild but more like staring into space in the street

not quite sure which door it was,

annoyed about the sidewalk being slippery,

trying all the doors,

thinking if love wished the world to be well,

it would be well.

Love should grow up like a wild iris,

but doesn't,

it comes fromthe midst of everything else,

sees like the iris of an eye,

when the light is right,

feels in blindness and when there is nothing else is tender,

blinks,

and opens face up to the skies.

~ Susan Griffin ~