The iris are almost all gone and it is not yet June. Summer came for about four days last week and then rains and spring returned to find only the last blossoms of the iris hanging on. My greedy soul finds it so hard to accept the brevity of every blossom. After months of gray and white and stark silhouettes the soul is hungry for color and shape and that heavy perfume that smells like sweet grape juice. These fleur de les dance like veils in the breeze and seem to just bounce in and then right back out the door before I can capture them for posterity! And yet, I have so very many, that I should be guilty with my greed.
I rush out to protect them from heavy rain and crazy wind and they are always awake before me.
Their furry throats call to me to look deep inside for something exotic and forbidden.
Over 300 varieties and people name their children and their restaurants and their technologies and even their songs after this beauty. But they cannot claim her excellence.
Even I cannot destroy her elegance with my digital manipulations!