Wild Iris

To be is perfect joy.
is why flowers are speechless.
Each petal reveals the ancient secret.
Creation is not a Word.

You could be a wild iris seeded by stray wind,
bursting by a ruined fence beyond the empty barn
where pigeons startle and flash in dusty sunbeams
stuttered through chinks of warped cedar.

Don't try to say it.
The passion in the fragrance of evening shadows
is all that matters, boding good rain.

There is a gaze through whom silence spills
from mirror to mirror its useless beauty
in streams of not pretending to know.
Be like this.

At day's end, feign no more wisdom

than when you awoke.
Trellised on that ruined fence,
bend under graces of weightless sky,
entwined with every weed of revelation.
Flower without trying, and be wild.