Transplanted in the woods, the iris rose from swords 
to fill the garden with color neither lavender 
nor periwinkle but close. They smelled of grapes 
if you came near, but few would, afraid of forests 
and ghosts, spirits from centuries ago, from where 
no one exactly knew. The rhizomes had seemed a cross 
between stone and rope, some kind of chord that ran 
along the surface of hard places where the woman 
found them. They had been easy to pry out and happy 
to be moved to soil far from perfect but soft 
from leaves. You leave, the ghosts breathed. We all do. 
The child danced in and out of shadow as the woman 
pulled weeds and the man set flat stones into a floor. 
The swords took the light, blade to hilt, and grew.