Yesterday was walking heel-toe
down the path to the boulder overlook.
The mountains across from our mountain.
The tiny road below
winding to Kings Canyon
hidden behind that range.
At home, the bloom of a lemon-hued bearded iris
large as my hand
its ruffled petals doing backbends
and hidden spaces between the top petals
leaning toward each other.
Today, this morning, she died
(as lately we learned she would).
Young. Young.
Too young. So much younger than I.
When we visit her husband and children
the dogs leap to our laps
and we stroke their eager softness desperately.
At home
buds on the stems of the lemon-hued bearded iris
bulge with the promise of more blooms.
Tonight.
Or tomorrow.
Or perhaps not until the next day.
