There’s a gnome in the bushes resisting the metaphysics of weather and this wilting flower is a moment, cultivating its own decay. My tongue is February and I can’t pronounce the Linnaean specifics. Where beauty breaks down like a whisper in a crowded room or an incomplete sentence or a body buried in the garden. Can such a form contain the wild? Note the difference between a flower and itself. Time chews its mottled leaves. A chipped culture of pinks, and the unknown limits of its materiality. We see it or know it as something tangles within its passage through time.