On Forgetting the Name of a Small Plant

A grace, a slightness. a green twist
Lightly angled from left to right.
A trace of utterness, a pendulous
White streak. God help me, what flower hangs
Down so upon its own ascension? You.
Can I forget your name and still know mine?
The soft interrogation of your tendril speaks
To me, yet does not speak your name,
And so I leave it where I must,
Known so clearly long ago,
To-day not clearly lost,
A tassel seeded in my mind,
A tangle where you taper most.
How can so much that's feminine and Greek
Take off and leave no evidence behind?
Grand botany, old friend,
In some small corner of your discipline
Permit me room and make it bright
And wish me luck,
That I may spring upon the fugitive

In the last syllable of her flight.