The Blue Iris

They grew, those iris,
in our ragged little backyard in the city
when I was a young girl —
their gracefully cupped petals
and trailing falls
rising above most other growth nearby.
We called that yard "our garden",
but it was a wild affair:
moonseed tangling with tea roses for supremacy
along the derelict fence;
basil, marjoram and mint
in fragrant bandy
by our kitchen door;
varicolored morning glories
and scarlet four 0'clocks
riotously dividing up the day.
But it was the blue iris —
smelling so incredibly blue,
(or so it seemed to my young mind),
that have always lit my memory.
We never tended them,
fed or divided them,
as knowledgeable gardeners would —
we never knew we should,
yet, they grew for us
year after year.