But Why Name An Iris Baboon Bottom?

The perception of an iris
is subjective.
Van Gogh painted writhing blooms
under a withering sun.
O’Keeffe enlarged sensuous shapes
in seductive shades.
I imagine memories and miracles.
Memories of old blue
and yellow flags grown
over a sewage line in dry West Texas.
Of a grandmother’s garden
filled with dew bedecked jewels in Dallas.
And a post Civil War family grave
guarded by a dormant plant
for over a hundred years.
Miracles of nature
in color and form.
What other flowers bloom
so obviously up and so obviously down?
With layers of iridescent cells
creating a fragile illusion
framed by sturdy fans
down to a root lasting for centuries.
A seasonal interplay of strength and beauty.


Nature’s Wordless Symmetry

One Spring
Years ago a stem of Mystique
seduced with its blue fragrance
across my bed.

Tonight in September
A stalk of Immortality
Flares angel wing white
Beside my pillows.

One bloom for spring, one for fall
One for seasonal life, one for death
Nature’s wordless symmetry outlives all.

I r i s   S o c i e t y   o f   A u s t i n
Poems by Dana Lovvorn