Wednesday, June 7, 2017

If I were a bee

this would be my breakfast.
If I were a poem
waiting to be written
here's the notebook
I'd select.
If I were a honey
waiting to be made,
here's were I would find
the perfect pollen.

1 comment:


    It seemed the summer had receded and the cheeks of his intended, the color back in them. An unusual progress of events as the hot afternoon sun began to fade for she opened the door of her large and elaborate house and strolled into the garden. It was not often she left the safety of the palace she had been born in, as her guardians thought her frail. But the day beckoned her, and the thought of someone's company was pleasant if not somewhat foreign. She heard the faint sigh of bees stinging their pollen, satisfying their destiny, moving along.