(Iris douglasiana)
•••
(for all the Dougs)

Now that we know their name,
we can address them properly as
we walk by the fan-shaped flowers

on the bluff-top trail: Hiya, Doug,
which calls to mind so many
Dougs we have known—

the college newspaper editor
who, decades later, on his final
day, golfed a bucket of balls

at the driving range,
talked with his brother,
and ate a steak dinner.

There’s the former student
who now deans at a college
that one of us attended

and where the other one
taught for a time, as well as
other memorable Dougs:

a wire service editor,
a slack key guitarist,
a top-notch news reporter.

All of them spring
to mind as we pass a host
of purple irises

blooming their violet
brilliance into a meadow
near the sea,

the indelible Douglases
here and gone too quickly,
but no less admired

and deeply loved.