Oh, to Be. Petals hold stern as bumble reaches, dainty limbs forage. She feels a tender glare, sucks in at possibility - a darted death. She wants to take bee from its bower of pollen gluttony, close her fingers about its freedom. She wishes to sup in meadows of wild mists, fly alone through avenues of foxgloves, meet a mate with huge dark goggles, a flashy coat, lie curled against him. © Anna Chorlton 2020
Takes me back to summer solace, so full of risk and promise. Thank you