An Iris nod defies an April wind
and dares the rain burst from a nimbus mass
to shave his beard with draw of razor strikes
or splash his face with hail stone essence scent.
He calls for Spring in velvet garden hues
like Samson taunts Delilah in their play,
to test his strength with waves of sea storm rage
and crown him with a tint of color span.
A gust of wind kicks at the gauntlet's dare;
the challenge of the plant, an act of war
and mother nature hones her weapon's blade;
she splits a stalk of wheat in half, in twos.
Then comes a twist of devil's dirt, thick-skinned
with clans of grains with pricks of filtered sand.
The strident king with leaves like pointed spears
and stems like ballet dancers' on their toes,
hen pecks the wind. He moves with artisans'
astute quick sways to dodge the pea size ice
and close the petals in the rainfall's spout.
Then comes the breeze to dry his vestment's wilt,
to rub the balm of nature in sand pelts.
His beard hangs on though scuffed and somewhat thinned.
He reaches toward the sky and clears his throat
to orate like a Shakespear's Thespian.

Yvonne Byrd Nunn
Hermleigh, TX