Blue iris [#26 Irene Blumen]

Blue iris

         for Irene Blumen

What bloomed in your garden if not blue iris, Irene and what lived on your shelves if not books.

I remember hearing the silly songs of that age; in the breezeway your older daughters danced their way out of the fifties into high-school. Your youngest, my age, shared her books.

There were so many things you had that we didn't, a bedroom for each daughter, a brick fireplace in back, maple trees. On the corner your house wore the welcome sign to our neighborhood, a gathering of concrete boats floating on clay prone to floods. I knew little beyond the oval of sidewalk, that pavement that went around the block and found itself again in front of your house, head swallowing tail.

But the irises.

And the garden, meek as it was, what a wonder to me! I wanted one for myself. Did you give me a rhizome to plant? Most likely.

And the books I devoured before I gave them back? They deepened my thirst to read.

Along the back of my baby sister's fence what's left of my garden still blooms in July; orange daylilies soak up the swamp of the clay.

But your irises, Irene. Ah ... blue iris.

© Kåre Enga [168.231] November 2011.

Note to self, previous version:

What bloomed in your garden if not blue iris, Irene and what lived on your shelves if not books.

I remember hearing the silly songs of that age in the breezeway, your older daughters dancing their way out of the fifties into high-school. Your youngest, my age, shared her books.

There were so many things you had that we didn't, a bedroom for each, a brick fireplace in back, maple trees. On the corner your house wore the welcome sign to our neighborhood, a gathering of concrete boats floating on clay prone to floods. I knew little beyond the oval of sidewalk, the pavement that went around the block and found itself again in front of your house, head swallowing tail.

But the irises.

And the garden, meek as it was, what a wonder to me! I wanted one for myself. Did you give me a plant? Most likely.

And the books I devoured before I gave them back? They deepened my thirst to read.

Along the back of my baby sister's fence what's left of my garden still blooms in July, orange daylilies soaking up the swamp of the clay.

But your irises, Irene. Ah ... blue iris.