Rightful Season

My Iris,
blue-eyed and upright,
fiercely wrought and fully formed;
bow not, bend not, stand
against the fickle wind,
the rain.
Let not the looming dusk,
your binding threads unwind,
nor Winter's whitening tide
your sea-swelled pedals wilt.

Your pedals
grown from powder blue and porcelain
now to cloudless skies,
to moon-marked ocean's boundless deeps
and welled alike
with dawning's infant blush
and twilight's thickening shades of night;
each that once I watched
commence their first unfolding
present blooms in perfect form and full,
your rightful season come
as all, and I
who long beheld your welling
now behold
your full and realized bloom.

You,
our once and little flower grows,
and grown to towered heights
has sprung to deeper shades and strong.
Within your wake we watch in wonder,
well aware our Iris, blue-eyed
leaps in colors bold
beyond our muted shades.
What once you full revered
recedes and pales
beneath your beautied swell.

My Iris, blue and moonlit,
raised aright and fully formed;
neither bend nor bow
to any sorrowed darks
or wisps of rain.
But skyward reach in bending's stead
and stay your deepened gaze
upon the boundless light
the sun has rising bled.