In Search of A Flower

I am open to the world 

a smell of fresh cut summer grass

circulating the air like silk

not fully bloomed to the eye’s view

Why didn’t the bee choose me?


Unmindful of the colony

droning in a unanimous rhythm

your stings

can hurt me like pellets 

glueing together my sepal.


I can see fingers grasping hold of your stem

petals rising from a nest of

silvery fur revealing a playground with

enough swings for us all.


Sometimes the breeze blows me close

but you’re too focused on matchbook cars

to ever notice why others see

my plum-colored beauty hidden

beneath the unwatered soil.


Why doesn’t the bee want me?



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