Resurrection flower--Day 3

"And the one sitting on the throne said, 'Look, I am making everything new!' And then he said to me, "Write this down, for what I tell you is trustworthy and true."--Rev. 21:5

Resurrection flowers-Day One

These Iris in our front yard are about to burst open, reminding me of death, and time and of the birth of new life. Years ago, they grew near my Dad's grave in Comanche, OK, around the base of a twisted  blackjack. 
I go there every year on Mother's Day, planting live flowers on my mother's grave 15 miles south in Waurika. Then on the way back, I stop at Comanche, and do the same for Dad.
One year, only the stump of the tree remained, but there were still the Iris, so I dug some up and brought them back.
Last year, for some reason these Iris  didn't bloom, and I missed them. And when I visited the Comanche grave, even those iris were gone.
So these are special flowers for me, because they remind me of life, death, family and the passing of years. Dad's been dead 41 years now. The iris bloom and then fade quickly compared to us, but they don't die even if there are some bad years. They remind me that our life also "is like a vapor."
I'll be glad when they bloom again, and in two weeks, I'll visit those graves again, thinking about these flowers. 

When Iris bloom in the dooryard

One of the iris from my Dad’s grave popped into full bloom in our doorway this morning, a beautiful purple blue.

I dug a few roots up several years ago in Fairlawn Cemetery at Comanche, Oklahoma, one early spring.

Every year they come up, around the blackened, jagged remains of an old oak tree stump.

When Dad was buried there, almost 40 years ago, the tree was alive. It

twisted upward in a half spiral, its weathered bark curving over his grave.

Dad would have loved the tree. The artist would have taken his pencils and sketched it on one of his pads. Like him, the tree had character.

The irises were there then, although I didn't notice them much because of the freshness of the grave, and the shape of the tree.

Several years ago though, the tree died, and rotted. I'm not sure when it

came down, but I suspect one of those southern Oklahoma windstorms snapped it off at the base.

I go back to the cemetery at the north edge of the poor little red dirt

Oklahoma town a couple of times a year, driving up the gravel, listening to

it crunch under my tires, and get out and walk toward the grave.

I used to be able to find the grave because of the tree, and now I look for

the stump and irises.

Four graves in a row, north to south.

Dad's grave, looking north. It's wet because I planted flowers and cleaned the stone.

The northernmost, a four-foot white marble pillar, tilting a little, was my

great-grandfather--Batte Peterson Clark:.

B.P. Clark

April 11, 1855

July 26, 1916

Next is a flat stone, my great grandmother:

Mary U. Watts Clark

1848-1923

Then there's granddad's flat stone:

Erle T. Clark

Jan. 14, 1890

Dec. 4, 1963

Then, Dad's gravestone, only about two to three miles north of where he was born:

Terrence M. Clark

Jan. 21, 1914

Dec. 14, 1973

"His Spirit Lives In His Paintings"

There is a space, room for one more grave.

Then there is the stump and the irises. Some of which now burst into bloom every year in our dooryard.

I can stand there, and walk between the graves and stump, and talk, and memories bloom again.

Just like the irises every spring,