Purple Irises

As if they were waving to me
from where they bloomed that spring

outside every front door of every farmhouse
Purple irises,

a tangle of tubers spreading
from one initial planting,

handed over year after year,
entrusted neighbor to neighbor

further down the dirt road near my new home,
young roots eagerly grasping unfamiliar soil.

That autumn I met
my neighbor along

our mutual property line,
my name lost to her

in the toss of the winds,
her face a stony fence

against what I might be:
an invasive species.

So, I retreated to wait out
the gossiping geese of October

and winter drifts of potluck
casserole recipes

until March with my field still
clumped with bricks of ice,

slow to break down
and smooth out. Struggling

with my hoe, I did not see her
until she was by my side,

reaching out to me
with a muddy hand

cradling a tuber, damp and waxy,
like a newborn.