My florist is my friend—
we share a silence,
wide and understood.

But today, a crack of awe broke through:
not the same art as last,
yet art.
And I am mesmerised—
its effect on me
shall never end.

Summer lingers at the door,
not fully here,
but something has begun—
a gentle anticipation,
each warmth along the way.

When you begin something,
something begins.
It might go without saying.
But where is the rule
that says it cannot be mentioned?

I was looking for an unusual flower—
not for romance,
just to speak what words could not.
A single bloom.

Then she made magic.
Not a sales pitch—
a layering of greens,
her hands deciding what would best
embolden my yellow.
She asked if I liked it.
I did not think I liked it.
I knew I loved it.

AND THIS IS THE FORCEFUL TRUTH:
I cannot do what she does.
Not because I am unlearned,
not because I cannot try—
but because it is not my calling.
And to know one’s own limit
is to truly see another’s gift.

So I gave her my gratitude—
not flattery,
but a deeper thing,
from a place that does not need to sell.

One day, I will learn how she came to this.
Until then, I hold what she made for me—

a beautiful single flower bouquet,
green and gold, quietly perfect,
not needing more,
soft as a breath after love.