Spears of Yellow Iris

They blossom, fall over, rot on the wet ground.
I snip them, trim them, stand them in a vase.
Cut flowers fade so fast.
I think of hospitals and funerals.

My mother hated cut flowers.
“Better leave them for others to enjoy.
They last longer on the bush.
Leave them to live.”

I saved these from rot for a few days.
A few days of sunshine petals at my desk.
A few days snatched back
from the Bone Man’s hand.

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