Iris Lennox

This one did not arrive gently.

The edges remember something—
a pressure,
a folding back,
as if each petal had to argue
for its place in the light.

Nothing about it is smooth.

The ruffles hold.
The color deepens where it was once hidden.
Even the softness has weight to it.

You could say it opened.

But that would miss
what it endured to become open.

There are days
the sky lowers itself without warning,
and everything living is asked
to stay.

No explanation is offered.
No promise of outcome.
Just weather.

Still, something in the root
keeps drawing what it can.

Still, something in the stem
lifts what it has been given.

And when it is finally visible—
the pale, steady unfolding—
no one sees the storms.

Only the shape they left behind.

Only the quiet fact
that it did not close again.

Only the way it stands
as if the breaking of it
was never the end.

@Jill Szoo Wilson, 2026