Ken Hurm

Mother’s Day

Mother’s Day. It starts with the sound of rain gurgling down the water spout. I rise to close the living room windows, for the wind is picking up. But the rain is soft and gentle.

No sounds except the steady gurgle of the water spout and the ding-dinging of the wind chime. And the ticking of my clock, which will soon lull me back to sleep.

Breathtaking, the stately irises, rising majestically on tall stalks and unfolding their scented loveliness to the rain. Their many varieties are so hardy, prolific and widespread. They are indeed “poor men’s orchids.”

prize iris:
my neighbor’s dog pauses
  to scent it