Wordless

[busker]

Wordless

I don’t know the names of plants
which makes it difficult to describe
scenes encountered outside:
glistened boughs and wet leaf confetti
slight fair afternoons renewed by deluge;
grassy path doesn’t grasp the shivering caress
of blue petals among sandy-blonde strands.

I can’t recall the names of birds
so the best I can do is tell you
about the balance of a hollow pear
on a pencil-thin branch under siege
from fitful gusts; but I’ve left out
the tail, the way it twitches as a cat’s
ears or a TV screen stuck between signals.

The names of clouds escape me, dissipate
into gray passages in my heavy textbook
of thoughts; I see the sun-yellow highlight
bright on the crest of the word to express
this lock of wool tethered to an invisible line
and lured across the crayon sky, unspooling
until wafted – the impression fading to forgotten.

The poem has a number of pretty memorable lines (green), but they aren't served well by the rest of the poem  (worst offenders: blue).
The opening draws the reader in, but then you have "which makes it difficult to describe / scenes encountered outside:", which is utterly prosaic.

So that's the first suggestion - cut out the deadweight.

my other observation is that in this type of poem, the reader expects a payoff at the end.  You start with not knowing the names of plants, but is there a nice  little piece of wisdom that's to come at the end of a well told list of things you don't remember? In this poem, there's none, it's just a list. That's a bit of a downer.