Iris 'Bold Print' 12 May 2023

Sleeping Flowers- Emily Dickinson

Whose are the little beds," I asked,
"Which in the valleys lie?"
Some shook their heads, and others smiled,
And no one made reply.

"Perhaps they did not hear," I said;
"I will inquire again.
Whose are the beds, the tiny beds
So thick upon the plain?"

"'T is daisy in the shortest;
A little farther on,
Nearest the door to wake the first,
Little leontodon.

"'T is iris, sir, and aster,
Anemone and bell,
Batschia in the blanket red,
And chubby daffodil."

Meanwhile at many cradles
Her busy foot she plied,
Humming the quaintest lullaby
That ever rocked a child.

"Hush! Epigea wakens! —
The crocus stirs her lids,
Rhodora's cheek is crimson, —
She's dreaming of the woods."

Then, turning from them, reverent,
"Their bed-time 't is," she said;
"The bumble-bees will wake them
When April woods are red."

In our Athlone in Kerrisdale garden my Rosemary banned Iris germanicus (bearded iris) but tolerated the yellow flag iris (Iris pseudacorus growing in our pond. She liked anything blue. So we had lots of blue irises.

This iris bloomed on 12 May 2023 but I have no memory if I bought it after or before Rosemary died.

These days I try to be distracted so as to try not to think of my missing love so I put special emphasis in scanning Iris ‘Bold Print’ in five different ways. 

Iris as a person’s name reminds me that I met two women named Iris in my past life and both were in Argentina. I had an aunt Iris Hayward who was married to my father’s youngest brother Freddy. Iris pronounced her name Argentine style “Eerees”. While doing my military service in Argentina I liked to visit Freddy and Iris in their home in Acassuso because Aunt Iris made the best devilled ham I have ever had.

The other Iris (also pronounced the Argentine way was Iris Moretta. They were from the Philippines and her family was very large. There were 8 of them. The men were named after biblical angels and the women were all flowers.

 More Emily Dickinson

A charm invests her face

 The white heat

I tried to be a rose 

nature rarer uses yellow 

The Tulip

Nor would I be a poet 

November left then clambered up
You cannot make remembrance grow
November
the maple wears a gayer scarf