No one sees
how long the green has held.
How it learned
to keep its softness guarded—
small spines at the edges,
just enough to say
not yet.
There is a kind of patience
that looks like stillness
from the outside.
Inside, something is gathering.
Color pressing forward.
A quiet yes
that will not be rushed.
And then—
not all at once—
a seam opens.
Red, where no one expected it.
Tender, where everything suggested otherwise.
Not because it was safe.
Because it was time.
—Iris Lennox, 2026
Iris Lennox 