Poem: Even The Last

Even The Last

You stand at the garden's edge,
looking at the color of iris,
a week past prime,
with their greenery edged with brown
and half of the flowers
now dead, their husks hanging
like cocoons long abandoned, and yet

a few flowers remain,
reminders of what was, and more,
a reminder that there is always beauty,
even now, even in this time of life
when you are no longer young
and so much of life has passed you by,

so much of the richness is dry and dead
like the irises that wave slowing in the May breeze,
and so you focus, not on the expanse of garden,
but on this one flower,
savoring it's richness,
it's vibrant determination of color,
and tender, velvet texture,

knowing every flower, even the last,
holds in it the promise of springs yet to come.

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The picture was taken in Manchester, Vermont. You can click on it for a larger version.

Tom