The Wild Iris

Irises are one of my favorite flowers. My grandparents had planted some leftover irises from our old house in Mass. about four years ago in their yard, but each spring the green shoots never produced any flowers...until now. This is the first year the irises in the photo above are going to bloom. They are a little late (as you can see by the photo below, other irises are already at their peak), but better late than never.

This is a poem by Louise Gluck from her collection appropriately titled Wild Iris. This poem reminds me of her other poem "Snow Drops" from the same collection. A tale of the seasons, rebirth/reincarnation and the voices of nature.

The Wild Iris
By Louise Gluck

At the end of my suffering
there was a door.

Hear me out: that which you call death
I remember.

Overhead, noises, branches of the pine shifting.
Then nothing. The weak sun
flickered over the dry surface.

It is terrible to survive
as consciousness
buried in the dark earth.

Then it was over: that which you fear, being
a soul and unable
to speak, ending abruptly, the stiff earth
bending a little. And what I took to be
birds darting in low shrubs.

You who do not remember
passage from the other world
I tell you I could speak again: whatever
returns from oblivion returns
to find a voice:

From the center of my life came
a great fountain, deep blue
shadows on azure sea water.