When one is accustomed to land and moves over the same spot time after time, you can detect temperature changes in regular spaces. There is a warm spot on our farm, where I feel the energy pull against me. The old home stood there. One cannot see a trace, but I can because of the thick lines of irises that bloom from the greening, in tight rows that L, to form a blue print of the old foundation. The bulbs never bulk the former house line, but expand laterally and contain themselves in shadows.
Rows of wild bulbs in a field, to conjure a wanting woman on hands and knees, separating pregnant hostas and pruning hydrangeas, with hands of expectation. Her eyes beckon for something more. In thread worn dress and apron, she plants in search for solace.
Last year, I went to collect bulbs and cuttings. The irises were deep purple, licked with gold from decades of burial in rich Arkansas farm land. I wondered if an element of beauty would be lost in the uproot, but no.
