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.

FLOWER