I watched the bouquet that you bought me
bloom inside my house.
I watched the swollen buds, not
quite green and not quite pink,
fluttering with life inside their
walls, slowly pushing to
release them from their
chambers to the great unknown of
my living room: this is about you,
you know.

I watched the leaves that you brought me
slowly make a change
quietly and faithfully
diligently, canopies
beneath flowers,
(leaves are so
  overlooked)

and I also watched the vase that you got me
I watched the ups and the downs of
the ripples of a grey white creamy glass
bumpy and textured and not afraid to compete
with carnations, to watch them die, to hold fresh cuts
again, nurses of the garden holding tired, flower
    bones

but beneath the buds on the new frontier
the leaves who work in shadows,
          and the vase that's seen more death than you or I, alone-
                            is your hand
I watch your hand that you present me,
lingered, hanging in the air
like a pear about to fall
the hand that chooses,
picks,
holds flowers,
  and doesn't forget that leaves
and stems and
bark
also need loving-
your hand that holds a vase and then
holds all the garden in
    me.