Royalty in the Garden

Royalty of the garden, an iris, its golden throat, spilling into purple velvet, a scepter, grasped between the chubby fingers of the little girl who marched about.  So rich, to touch it with those tiny fingers, you’d expect them to come back awash with violet.

Some gardener’s in our tiny town thought it a shame to slice the stalk of the striking flora. Not her grandfather, Jonas McCabe.

Whisked away in to her imaginary kingdom, talking to the queen, ordering the jester to dance and commanding everyone must pause for tea, time stopped.

 A rustle of a skirt would respond to the chair she directed her Grandmother Anne to sit in. From heaven she came to Jessica’s quite real kingdom. On a farm some years ago just outside Gracier, Iowa.