Iris Season!

Image via Wikipedia

One of Van Gogh's many iris paintings.

Finally, the tall bearded irises in my backdoor bed are blooming. They opened sometime last night and this morning when we came out the door, there they were, glistening in the morning sunshine. That long wait was totally worth it. Several of these iris rhizomes were rescued from the lawn which had crept into their overly shady bed. I dug them in the middle of a misting spring rain, in the very chill world of mud and drizzle that is the early year. And the incident inspired this Poetry Friday post.

My purple veined iris that came with our house.

I think the irises I was digging and transplanting that day are these lush, purple veined ones, and I think the fluttery lilac one below is a variety I ordered from the excellent folks at Shreiner's Iris Gardens, along with a brilliant butter yellow which I hope is still coming.

If you're looking for some new irises, I heartily recommend them. The only caveat is that you'll get lost drooling over the photos on their web site. If you're a novice gardener, looking for some recommendations, bearded irises are a good pick, they're beautiful, often fragrant, make beautiful cut flowers and given sunshine they are carefree and unfussy. I love them for all these reasons and also for the fact that they are so historically enduring. Irises are one of those flowers that often outlives houses or at least the owners of said houses and will still be bravely blooming every spring, even if their good gardeners have gone on to contribute to the soil themselves. I love a resourceful romantic, even if the romantic is a plant.

Image via Wikipedia

Monet's iris path. Someday, I'll visit.

Next iris task is to paint my own rendition of them, after the great masters of brush and palette. I have in mind to try my hand at this beautiful basket of cut irises for sale that I photographed in a garden France during our trip to Europe in 2008.

I've been thinking about it for years, way before I "could" paint. A and I used to play this game somewhat perpetually called "If I Could Paint" wherein we'd call out to the other person and point when a particularly heart-tugging image hit us and we wished we were able to wield a brush. It still cracks me up to think that suddenly one day, I discovered I could paint...I have years of catch-up ahead of me. That game set me up with a long list of future subjects.

Related articles

• A Dummies Guide to Growing Irises (shantara.wordpress.com)
• Coffee Table Book of Irises (flowergardengirl.wordpress.com)
• Have I Told You I Like Irises? (allchainedup.wordpress.com)

Poetry Friday: Spring Fever In Action

Image by Bill Gracey via Flickr

Happy Poetry Friday to each and every one of you!

Been out this morning a bit and going to be out a bit more the rest of the day. I love it when poetry happens to me, especially on a busy Friday like this one. I always wonder if this week will be one of the weeks when I sit there waiting for a poem, or if the perfect inspiration will hit via idea or experience. Today, Poetry came by and stepped into my life without so much as a "by your leave" and it was lovely. Transporting even.

To My Husband, Just So He Knows

There was something in the air this morning
After I took you to work I pulled in the drive
And bolted rashly from the car, bent with purpose.
The grass was squishy gold and rain was sifting down.
Around a hidden corner of the foundation was a nest
Of forgotten iris rhizomes and they were calling
My fingers feverishly, right there into the mud,
Packing my nails with dark-lines and smudging my left cuff.
I was fumbling earnestly, over the grass, in the rain
Pulling the knobby ginger roots from the turf and
Snaggling them out from under the metal highway
Of the rain gutter sloping over their lumpy toes and
The small silver blue sword points beginning to emerge.
I bent there over the irises and manically pulled
And tossed until I had grown a small heap of liberated
Roots and nubbins, muddy smears and blue-silver tips.
I took the accumulation over to a blank chocolate bed,
And like some desperate primeaval horticulturalist
Used a handy, triangular rock to gouge out muddy earth
Scratching each shallow pit, then tucking in the roots,
Patting soil over them with my sticky brown finger tips.
And there was our son beside me, curious and big-eyed
Watching Mommy crouching over a damp patch of earth
In a pale blue trench coat in the drizzling rain
All mud up to the wrists, gleaming white ear-buds
Dangling over one shoulder and the car keys still in her teeth.

I love that suddenly, after one manic fifteen minutes I have an organized little iris patch. I wonder if all the roots will thrive and take and above all, I wonder and can hardly wait to see what colors that little batch of nubby roots will produce. I am praying that among them there will be one or two of the tall, old-fashioned purples with the long falls and the heavy tangy scent like grape soda.

If you enjoyed this taste of  verse and want a little more to satiate your poetic appetite, click your way over to Liz In Ink and enjoy perusing the list of all the Poetry Friday contributors right along with me!