Rainbow dust settles in her hair
And along the dark arch of her wings.
She pauses in her errand and turns to me,
Smiling. “Don’t you know me?”
Of course, I try to say, but my tongue
Is held fast by threads of gleaming ecstasy
And the reverence one cannot help
But hold for the mighty gods, above and below.
She steps out of her skin and into
Another, easier form. She laughs at me,
Covering her mouth with rosy fingers.
“I am Iris, messenger of the skies.”
I cannot speak, dazzled still by her.
My mind is a thorny world, tangled and painful.
She takes flight, speaks, and then she is gone. Her words
Linger as I awaken: “Blessed are those who help themselves.”