The flowers in my neighbourhood come in many shapes and colours, in varying degrees of tendedness. We value those that are rare, that are excellent specimens of their kind, that tell us winter is over, that are beautifully scented, that are lush or profuse, that are interestingly arranged, that are poignant. We do not value those that are eternal. Perhaps they serve only to remind us of our own mortality. Or perhaps there simply aren't enough poems about them.