Existed early on: a fresco in King Minos’ palace on the island of Crete, dated 2100 BC, on walls inside Egyptian pyramids, 1500 BC. Painted by da Vinci, Dürer, Van Gogh, Monet, O’Keeffe. They grow wild in almost every US state, tall and dwarf, leaves like swords, six-petaled flowers, 3 inner (upright), 3 outer (hanging), bloom white, yellow, red, blue, purple to near black, bi- and tri-colored. Adorned with dramatic veins, dots; crested, bearded (a patch of fussy hairs—a landing strip—to guide pollinators to nectar. Said to be named after Iris, Greek goddess of rainbows, messenger of the gods, arcing earth to heaven.  

On a weekend getaway, a friend and I happened on an iris farm in full bloom where they dug up the entire plant—rooted rhizomes, clinging soil and all. We came away with bags that filled my trunk and the back floor wells. What rapture—their heady scent (powdery, earthy, spicy) nuzzled us as we drove through Kentucky, windows down when their fragrance overwhelmed my compact car. What care we lavished on them. What wild, lush dreams sprung from the musk of them laid out in the hotel bathtub while we slept.