Iris

I see

The black of letters

Speak much louder than

The words. Raised high,

I see

The signs. Borders framed blue

By the morning sky. Proof of

Breadth. The need for

Broad, Horizon breaths.

I see history. I know it

By the red drops that

Dry into a shirt and make it

A Legacy. Standing out from off-white

Tear gas billowing into a haze. I see

Through the mist

That makes conflict

A drifting shuffle of

Silhouettes. I don’t recognize

A person’s outline. I see

What brims and spills

Their essence into the air

Like the deep Blues, and

Spices ground into

Reddish yellow-browns

Fine enough that they

Pollinate the nose, soft blooms

Made by spinning dresses dancing

The Salsa, and the intricate

Beige of embroidery

Petaling long boubous. I see

And know another by buds

The patina of pastel pueblos,

The rich pigments of aboriginal

Face paint, the sweet orange

Of jackfruit cut down by

Good hosts, the light green of

Tea ceremoniously brewed.

I see people

That blossom

So generously

That I sprout.

And am watered.

I celebrate,

I celebrate

The sweat and tears

Of many rains

Flowing through irrigation

Built for days of warm sun

And all of our Nature

That makes

The earthy brown

Of my iris

The fertilizer

That seeds us all

A meadow.