Those buds look so flat, so incapable of delivering what is to come. Bud and bloom change nearly hourly. I take breaks from my work so I can see what the iris have done most recently. I think of them at times as the silent ninjas of the flower world. In silence and stealth, their slices of leaves reveal hooded buds--not more than bumps when they begin. The buds become tight swirls of color, petals spun tightly around their centers, and then open into a shape half-lantern, part-parachute, part temple, every centimeter looking hand-colored as though by a tiny brush held by a Japanese master.
I admire more than their beauty, though. Iris are tough. They survive extreme heat. They flower even when they are not well-cared for or well-watered. Drive by an old house, its yard in disrepair, a dead tree here, scraggly bushes there, and in a corner there will be a clump of iris, lifting their golden heads to the sun, petals stirring in a soft breeze, looking as though the flower might become a butterfly and take flight. They remind me never to make the mistake of thinking that delicacy is devoid of strength.
|All photos, Ysabel de la Rosa|