Crypts of Fuchs

Iris, purple and the long, old fashioned roots growing themselves a foot out in order for silky, bruised petals to be held up to clouds on green shoots, yellow tongues reach skyward, show themselves out from beneath the overrun hedges, the terraced sidewalk of 8th street, steeper than any in San Francisco, I kick off a tuber for transplant, the brackish waters below a story of river fog, the black and red ships filled with pot ash and grain, string-bobs whose plumb lines change, depending on the ebb and rush of this fisherman’s highway.

Grandma instructed me, cut these leaves as fans when the glowers wither and melt into the circled stems, such quick delicacies and memorable smells, strong stocks and the yellow feathered lips who spring to be forget-me-not’s in May, then by late August, the lights flicker, blister and melt holes in the hot, halcyon projector, the dead cherry leaves already making their raking sounds on the asphalts below, the dump trucks in first-gear blast by, burn out the voices of those who do stop to greet, talk of early and hard winters, iris reddened eyes, are pinched and crumpled, dissolving purple crepe papers.

Photo credit: Holliston Reporter/creative commons