This year, seven irises will bloom.

Last year, two only.

The first purple tongue unfolds,

licks the cool air.

Crowded in their corner, these plants

require dividing.

Another house, another husband,

one long dusk, I broke

the clumped rhizomes apart.

Rootstalks like stone potatoes,

hard loaves of bread.

Each piece needed its own space.

Onto the grass opened a doorway

of yellow light, his voice calling.

A few more minutes, I worked

in the earth and night.

He passed, and years. I brought children

and the irises to this home.

Now grown, my children have

always known irises.

To be rooted to blooms,

noticed or not.

What else did I, as a mother, try

to give them? The practice

of pausing, on any morning,

to watch the sun arrive.