In honor of my great-grandmother, Elizabeth Sawyer, who raised the best mother I could ever have.
This week during the steaming afternoon
of a Delaware Wednesday in late May
my mother told me she hated the in-
between of spring and summer. “Everything
is just green, there is nothing else,” but I
tend to like the various shades of green;
some deeply saturated in the shade
of maples, others pale and glistening
in the sun's glance. I noticed a sole gold
iris standing stoic and proud to be
the last of her kind this season. Despite
such strength she possesses, she is always
positioned perfectly like a vintage
painting you might find in a northeastern
continental mansion. She beckons the
neighboring bees and insects to collect
their pollen, lapping up the light of the
sun like an overheated dog. She waves
This week during the steaming afternoon
of a Delaware Wednesday in late May
my mother told me she hated the in-
between of spring and summer. “Everything
is just green, there is nothing else,” but I
tend to like the various shades of green;
some deeply saturated in the shade
of maples, others pale and glistening
in the sun's glance. I noticed a sole gold
iris standing stoic and proud to be
the last of her kind this season. Despite
such strength she possesses, she is always
positioned perfectly like a vintage
painting you might find in a northeastern
continental mansion. She beckons the
neighboring bees and insects to collect
their pollen, lapping up the light of the
sun like an overheated dog. She waves
