Iris

Listen to Alan Shapiro reading this poem.

Love flower of the middle-aged,
The interanimating pain
And beauty in the way the stalk
Bends under the unexpected weight
Of the still uncrumpling gaudy tissue
Of the newest blossom
while
the lower blossoms like a ghostly
time lapse in reverse appear
to shrivel into themselves and turn
away forlorn before they fall,
the way the snapshot fell from its sleeve
into her lap,
and there she was,
my new love with her old love years
before beside a lake with blue
hills in the distance rolling down
to bluer water, and there they were,
the lovers, naked, hand in hand,
both smiling back
at me a smile
of joy so new, so mischievous
you couldn't look at it and not
believe no lovers ever gave
themselves so freely to each other.
The flower bends under the blossom's
weight; it trembles, bending
it almost
seems
to hold it up, as if
to hold it there forever, its one
and only darling, honey child,
how did I ever live without you?
How could I ever let you go?

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