Iris

Somewhere out there is a quotation that goes something like, “There is no more perfect expression of hope than a gardener planting a bulb in the autumn.”

Or something like that.

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Or, in my case, iris rhizomes. They always grew like jiminy crickets for me in Midwestern clay, which is supposed to be sub-optimal, so I have my fingers crossed that the nine pretty purple-and-white varieties I planted along my retaining wall will like it there.

The soil is … odd. Not sandy, exactly, but fluffy. It’s also densely crisscrossed with the roots of the horrible groundcover I killed to make room for the iris. I pulled a lot out to get my rhizomes in the ground, and packed them back in with potting soil, just to let them know I love them.

And now, I wait.

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