Iris, at 92, is more birdthan flower, more wingsflapping than bloomunfolding. She is not stilllife, not slow motion,but mid-flight and atwitter,elbows and knees in awkward poses, fragileneck gawked in the lovely way of a small craneor a young duck. Only her lavenderpants suggest a plant,a blossom of early spring—oh,and the way she lookstoward the sun, stretchesas our instructor tells her to,her back a tender stalk.
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