Thursday, February 17, 2011

Iris. How does a poem accomplish its seeing?

Gratitude. Grit.

Last Friday I saw the first iris – small, white, delicate. (Have they withstood these last days of slashing rain/wind?) Harbinger of wildflowers. Next to me, one recorded them digitally. Pen, is my preferred vehicle of remembrance.

A cook sees; the meal ensues.

There’s that bond between poet and poem, too. And the audience with a myriad of lenses?

This post is for the poet, irisblue.

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