The nacreous, mother-of-pearl cloud
between sunset and sunrise bid
the clay lie beneath the earth,
not yet formed on a potter’s wheel,
illusive, waiting for a cup, a bowl, a vase,
to procure out of its shapeless form.
Yet healing emanates
where lack of dying dwells.
The bonny swan rise o’er the calm
pond swells, and iris stands straight—
a less than mediocre gate—its tear
shaped bud, from heaven descended.
Its brilliant hue, a door
by which we entered.
A woman in her fragile form
became purple iris of the morn.