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Iris, a poem by Rosemary Freedman

by Rosemary Freedman

Three days after the burial
a call came through that I had a visitor
in the lobby. Despite his grief
this man had, as promised, taken the trowel
that his wife had wrapped her small hands around
and dug out some of her favorite Iris.
I sit on the steps of my porch
and I do not see the Iris only, tall as a small child—
instead I imagine my patient—long before I met her—and before she
lost use of her arm. She has collapsed to the ground—
and surrendered to the dirt—to plant these purple bearded giants.
I imagine she was happy then, as she had gotten them for free
from a neighbor who was moving. We so often create stories
of other people’s lives, because certainty is comforting.
I am certain of this, when I see the blooms open,
she comes back to life and we visit—if only for a short time.

From Rosemary Freedman; ”I am educated with a BA in Creative Writing and Literature from IU and also have a BS in Nursing, as well as Masters level degrees and work as a nurse practitioner and clinical nurse specialist. I am married and have 7 children. I enjoy writing, photography, reading and gardening.