When Bloom is Done by Shelley Armitage

Texas Spring During Covid
In this moment you have changed
Bishop’s cap a mouth, unspeaking,

sipping air, ignorant of neighbors
slamming doors, motorcycles like a pack

of wasps, the fart of an old truck.
We are told shelter in place, yet

people rush as the wind picks up
Before dusk carrying vibrations

of a border helicopter slicing air.
You stand, slightly swaying

a leaf of peace.

This is your ripening time
and I am drawn to get the hose

bring water—a small penance
to you, the saint, who, green and patient

all winter, restores calm,
a creative waiting

One iris is blooming; the world is on fire.
Can we remember the rhizome faith

when bloom is done, when we
are left with only spent stalks?

You are not perfect. You bend
with less than a full head

in this Texas wind. But beauty
seems even greater when shaped

by harbor and stealth, by fear and trembling.
Will your bloom be that old-fashioned purple

or one of the flashy new varieties? You are
cousin to those irises of old, stubborn still

tubers of time, of memory of sun,
and moisture and stillness.

I unfurl the hose, bring the holy water:
you tap an inner sweetness

in this supplicant turned steward,
in this gesture of love.