Yesterday these irises were closed. There was only a hint of blue petal at the tip of the tightly twisted cone sitting on the long sturdy stem. It was a humid day, a waiting sort of day. Late in the evening it began to rain and I think it rained all night. At some time in that cool wet night, the big pale blooms opened. Some darker ones unfurled too. The pale flowers carry a particular scent, a flowing light scent. Just as the sappy smell of daffodils makes me believe it is spring, so the smell of these irises tells me it is summer.
I neglected my wild roses. I should have cut them down in early spring. Now they are tall canes massed with small pink blossoms just opening up. The rain made them bow down, creating a barrier for the gentle workmen who came early in the morning to “finish” my renovations. I do not really believe they will finish. Like Thomas, unless I see, surely I will continue in this floating existence where all my possessions conspire to elude me. My furniture is covered with bedsheets. My pictures are shoved into cupboards. I had no idea how precious certain key items of clothing were until they fell into the slow whirlpool that inhabits my house. I’m convinced I’ll never see that beige brassiere again. Renovations are like a Fellini movie without the charm.
I retire to the garden to tie up the rose bushes. My modest little city home does not need to be protected like the castle of Sleeping Beauty. I feel more like Cinderella eternally sweeping and certainly there is precious little sleep going on. My miserable bedroom, divested of furniture has no curtains up and a street light shines cruelly into my eyes. The wicked witch even rises to the surface from time to time. I go about muttering bad spells and lunch off unenchanted apples.
I gingerly embrace the tall rose canes as I would an old lover. The memory of past deep wounds makes me cautious. There are few thorns on the new growth, however, and I manage to tie up the drooping branches. I try to train them up onto a trellis but they stubbornly turn their heads. With a few scratches inflicted on my arms I leave the half-assed job. An apt metaphor in fact. Let the one long ago beloved blossom in his own way.
Come in June! Come poor,tomatoes and peppers that I neglect so! Come on white roses to rival the pink! Welcome and let me not fail you.
A poet, a poet, I know a real poet❗️
Thank you, father John!