A painted vase sits in the darkness of a day done.
A single iris lengthens above a bed of peonies,
their brimming shapes fill the room with a quiet fire

that burns blue in the night. Still, a few hours
to morning, memory, too, glows with cold hush,
its tall shadows draping the bedroom walls,

like clouds over a small moon. In the deep hours
of grief, this: the iris is no less elegant
for having been cut, the peonies, no less vibrant

for blooming in the dark. Close your eyes
and breathe in their perfume, trailing,
like beauty just headed off to bed.