In the corner of the front yard
Siberian Iris are preparing to bloom:
flat blades, oval buds. Every year,
I imagine a ship with that image
blazoned on the sail. I am waiting for
the ship to launch — but how it will go
from solid land into deep water,
I cannot say. The iris whispers
one thing, logic insists upon
another. It’s a mystery,
of course, how to move
from one world to the next;
how to trim the sails,
how to set the course.
Dark Matter 
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