There is no dreaming in the agenda of blooms,
not even a sidelong glance towards fantasy or forecast.
One simply bursts forth in a riot of color,
an unpremeditated spectacle in a lonely field,
dressed to the nines in petals for no one.
And yet, the buzzing. The incessant buzzing arrives uninvited,
a rude guest late to a party it was never made aware of.
It crashes the silent jubilee, feasting,
a black and yellow interloper with a gourmand\'s appetite
for sweet nectar and accidental pollinations.
The bees, with their leg-pockets full of stolen sun,
dart from throat to throat, impelled not by dreams
but by some primal GPS etched into their tiny, fervent brains.
They know nothing of the flower\'s hopelessness,
or the beauty it proffers to the indifferent sky.
The flower doesn’t dream of the bee, no,
it simply blossoms because that is what flowers do,
and the bee, ever the opportunist in an opportunist’s tiny boots,
comes zumba-dancing across the airwaves,
a melody of need and survival on its buzzing lips.