Plant names tend toward abrupt poetry.
Yarrow. Calendula. Fennel.
I pick at my scab but not pry it loose.
The same shield that, marred, let pus ooze through
Where my knee might unsuspectingly press it into your blue-white bedding and I might wonder how recently you had washed that duvet.
How you might look upon those chartreuse stamps the following day, considering activities we had not, yet, engaged in. And might not then, might not ever make such choices that could hurdle our emotional received or accrued intelligence.
Prayer flags tatter in the wind, betraying both truth of the decay inevitable and, likely, their own budget manufacture, though the reminder they perform is only made that much more immediate.