William Wordsworth wrote a poem to daffodils. I wonder what he would write if he saw my son's garden. Bearded iris bloom on his 2 1/2 -acre plot of land in south Denver, in a multitude of vibrant colors. Each May, Bob and my daughter-in-law, Kwi-Ye, anticipate the burst of beauty from this delicate flower.

As he weeds and waters his irises, Bob follows in his grandmother's footsteps. During his childhood, he often saw her on her knees in her rock garden, planting and nurturing her flowers. In promotional material, he writes, "Remember your grandmother's garden? Bring those memories back to life. Come and visit our Iris 4 U Gardens. Wander through the rows on your own or take a guided tour."

Each year, a variety of people respond to the invitation. I have peeked over the shoulder of an artist as she captured the delicate beauty of an iris on canvas. I have heard couples as they exclaimed over the display. My heart reached out to a man who came alone. He stood silently, hands at his sides, in a row of purple irises. I wondered if he was remembering flowers that his wife or mother or grandmother grew.

And there were two women in their mid-20s who pulled into the parking area. They opened the back doors of the car and four children, all under 4, spilled out. A single woman in her vehicle joined them. My granddaughter Jennifer walked over and asked, "May I help you?" One of the mothers said, "Mind if we sit here awhile before we look at the irises?" "You've found the perfect spot," Jennifer said. The women sat down at a nearby table, while the children began running up and down the aisles between the blooms. Anxiety rolled over me. I wanted to holler, "Don't step on the flowers!" One mother turned and said it for me.

"Be careful; don't hurt the flowers."

The children, stooping down to smell the flowers, obeyed and walked carefully up and down the rows.

The mothers relaxed and pulled Bibles and booklets from their backpacks. They bowed their heads briefly, and one began reading aloud. A discussion followed. One of the women noticed me watching and smiled. I sent a smile of my own back.

Thirty minutes later, they took lunch pails and coolers from the trunks of their cars and proceeded to have a picnic lunch. They finished eating just as my son arrived. The mothers toured the garden with him. I heard them exclaim, "Lovely," "Beautiful"  and "I wish I had room for one of each."

One woman bought a few plants, and Bob smiled and said, "Come again, anytime."

After they left, I asked, "Did you know those women had a Bible study here?" Bob's reply made me smile. "Great! What better place than in a garden? But now come with me. I want to show you something special."

He bent down and cupped a pale, lemon-colored flower in his hand. Its petals deepened into dark yellow. Like an exclamation point, a brilliant yellow, furry beard was centered in the middle.

"I crossed these two," he said, pointing at a cream-colored iris and a bright yellow one. "This is the result. Hopefully, next year the strain will be stronger and better." I looked down at the flower framed in his hands, then out over the field. I held my breath listening. In that garden, I heard the glorious flowers singing songs of praise. Some, dressed in delicate peach, sing soprano. The altos take their place in gold yellow while the tenors stand out in soft bronze. Those wearing almost black are not in mourning; they are the choir's bass.

Walking down the rows, or standing before the assorted flowers, the titles given them jump out. The names complement the blooms: "April in Paris,", "Beautiful Vision," "Blue Luster," "Honey Scoop." Each flower draws a heartfelt burst of admiration.

I look and listen for as long as I can, for the explosion of color and music is short.

But, there is always tomorrow. When this year's irises have finished blooming, I can look ahead to next May. Then I'll go and once again be refreshed as I listen to the song of the iris.