Golden iris

In honor of my great-grandmother, Elizabeth Sawyer, who raised the best mother I could ever have.

This week during the steaming afternoon 
of a Delaware Wednesday in late May 
my mother told me she hated the in-

between of spring and summer. “Everything
is just green, there is nothing else,” but I 
tend to like the various shades of green;

some deeply saturated in the shade 
of maples, others pale and glistening 
in the sun's glance. I noticed a sole gold

iris standing stoic and proud to be
the last of her kind this season. Despite
such strength she possesses, she is always

positioned perfectly like a vintage 
painting you might find in a northeastern
continental mansion. She beckons the 

neighboring bees and insects to collect
their pollen, lapping up the light of the
sun like an overheated dog. She waves

her flowing petals in the slightest gust
of wind but does not fall subject to its
powers. I say to my mother, “at least

we have Gigi with us still,” she nods and
we share a few silent breaths before soon
bidding the old world outside our house an

early goodnight.