If Iris were dresses, I’d have quite a wardrobe.
There would never be worries about what to wear.
I’d wear Persian Berry to the ballet
and dream that I too am leaping and twirling.
Easter Sunday would call for the bright, sunny yellow of Banana Frappe’.
For a run south of the border, I’d don Thunder Echo
and dance the Tango and Rumba in practical shoes with ruby buckles.
A skyscraper evening with sparkling drinks would require Immortality with diamonds.
For a night on the town, I would slip on Little Much, full of ruffles and sparkles.
For a trip to the seashore the attire would be Shipshape,
with matching blue flip flops and a straw bag and hat.
An evening at the symphony deserves an attire of Night Affair with amethyst earrings.
But since iris are just flowers and I just the gardener,
I’ll slip on my apron with tools in its pocket and dream in my garden,
My garden of dreams.