Iris

Robert Rice

Coming back from the mailbox,
near the fence I noticed
its small, green swords pushed up
through the near-frozen dirt.
It stopped me.

Sometimes
—not often—
a simple shift of light
will shake and crack
the thin screen of the world. Then each

defended story, end-stopped,
will turn in the faded light of evening,
cross the gray sky in you,

leave no trace.