The Iris Tender

He tends the irises,
kneeling crouched upon the grass.
Breathing deep, inhales
the earthy scent of soil
in which they lie.
Tall and waving hues of lavender,
a fragrant fence around the yard.
He works; his hands, calloused, scarred,
but tender now - to pluck a weed from here,
and here, smooth and sculpt the soil,
taking care. The rhizomes must be set,
just so, at proper depth for growing.

He breathes again, heady purple perfume
eases acrid smell of fires, charred
and blackened memories of homes
and health, and love,
and lives. This man,
his hands,
have searched through rooms
clogged thick with smoke,
to feel, to grope, and with seasoned
expertise, close in on
death, and gently cradle silent human form.

Quietly he walks along the violet scented rows,
spraying soft arc of water, grass squelching
underfoot.

Five bodies lost in the St. Croix river
on a hot July night. He leads
the search and rescue team. The silty,
churning waters make no allowance
for a flower tender.
He dives in darkness,
feels his way underwater,
big hands swimstroke through the murk.
He will not bring a life back to the surface,
but he will bring an end to a wait.
An end to a weight.

And tomorrow, again,
he will tend
his irises.

Mary Ellen Seidel