I wait for dusk, and with the first dark

Sneak across the parched grass, under

Pine boughs dropping their dry needles,

To where my neighbor's irises slump,

Eleven left now withering in drought,

All their tiny blue and purple petals

Curled and crisp, edged with brown.

I have never seen him water them

And I think he will not miss just one,

Taking the smallest, pinching its stem

With my thumbnail, carrying it home

In the palm of my hand, not knowing

If it's the flower or my fingers trembling.

I fill an old stone jar with water and

Place it where morning sun will reach,

Hold the flower above it, letting it go

To sink and settle as it will, no longer

Limp but leaning in the cool clarity

Of this love and this place I've made.

Oh my little flower and oh my life -

Do we dare know this is nothing more

Nor less than a different way of dying?