You are going to die. You are made of the dust and moisture and compounds of the earth, just like these iris growing in a garden in Salt Lake City beside a carport and the outrageous reaches of a walnut tree.
Sun pours through them and their fragrance emanates. I rescued them from a garbage can marked “free, purple and yellow.”
You are free, purple and yellow.
It is too much to consider the wealth of soil. No book and certainly no blog could contain that wonder. (Although I admit I am tempted to try…) Hold in your heart the thin radiant petals. Let the vast earth you don’t appreciate absorb all sorrows. Walk among the hundred thousand things as beautifully and unprotected and willingly as flag iris bloom on a hot day in early June. Or late June, when they’re all stalks and leaves. Earwigs dash up. The sprinkler never turns on. Dog poop is rotting.
Glorious, glorious days.
You are free, purple and yellow.
It is too much to consider the wealth of soil. No book and certainly no blog could contain that wonder. (Although I admit I am tempted to try…) Hold in your heart the thin radiant petals. Let the vast earth you don’t appreciate absorb all sorrows. Walk among the hundred thousand things as beautifully and unprotected and willingly as flag iris bloom on a hot day in early June. Or late June, when they’re all stalks and leaves. Earwigs dash up. The sprinkler never turns on. Dog poop is rotting.
Glorious, glorious days.
