I wish I knew the name of every wildflower,
but the few I do are the brightest and
most common, the ones that trumpet loudest.

Those betrayed only by their subtle scent,
shyly tucked among the underbrush,
are strangers, answering to no endearment.

Timidly, they highlight the blanketing shade.

When addressed, I am sure their names
would taste delicious on my tongue;
a sweetness I could later savor for dessert.

Yet without a book or a wiser friend along,
remaining nameless as I walk away,
their unlabeled presence defies cataloging.

Returning home, bashfully escaping my
colorless attempt at description,
they wilt into an unpronounceable memory.


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