You taught me most of what I know of flowers:
their names of course, their habitats, their scents.
And somehow, subtly, not by word of mouth,
a love for them: more and less than knowledge.

Now the names of even the most common
escape you. And though I try to teach you
what you once taught me, you don’t really care.
Where you’re going names no longer matter.

I’ll not persist with them. Nor will I pick
what flowers I find to bring: I know
they’ll not survive. Instead I’ll hold my hands
around a bunch of living, growing stems.

All that matters their shy independence.
That it might be held by being let go.