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?