Violet can’t trace a return into greenery.

Corners edge into iris – wild iris – blossoming our Spring. And one becomes many…possibly. Optimism befits a thing that aspires to more, never-will-be-seen things. For handcuffed to a hill, accented into place, this – and these – wild iris cannot, to me, describe the land.

Like milk in jar, their purpose is multifaceted, but their origin is singular. Pouring from sedge or fern, wildflowers are too often reserved for the smile of sanctuaries. It’s lost opportunity. Though the species brightens itself distinct from others, it nevertheless congeals the landscape beyond absentminded urban regularity.

Freckled deep amidst the woods, even a bumper crop just barely speckles the jowl of the coastal mountains. In this way, the wild iris is unobtrusive. So too is the flower uncontrived: appearance is regular but brief, shape defined but flexible, origin known but organic.

Rarely does a spectator bloom, yet still nature’s audience applauds nobody in particular.

[Creative Commons Photo]