Spring is my teacher. Each year, this brief season unfurls wild banners of fragile petal and new leaf that remind me I know nothing but surface secrets. The diadem or end beauty of every living thing is hidden in the bulb and root long before time shapes color into a blushing bud.
How many trees have I passed by, oblivious to the gem cloud that was always a part of their being, but unseen except for a transitory primaveral window?
For my irises, I mulch them before winter, I trim their leaves back, I remove the mulch in the spring and give them a thin layer of garden soil. I apply Miracle-Gro pellets for extra nourishment and water them every few days (Sometimes I weed, though not as much as I should!).
The end result? An instance of ephemeral, rainbow-robbing beauty.
Plants teach me humility and patience as a writer. The story must start in the deep and dirt, germinating out of the nourishing detritus of hard work and old dreams passed on. And like my irises, I hope to bear a bright coronet of ink one day.