"To be a flower is a profound responsibility. It is to wait for the weight of the world to
descend and demand your nectar."
— Emily Dickinson
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The clover lay still, closed, small, certain, nothing to offer, the color of her going dark— a vitreous-Tyrian. The bee, chromatic senses’ tasting on the tongue-tip licking the runes of black-light-lace circled once, twice— warm wing-drift brushing kindred nearness his thorax trembling, scent of sun-saturated-sweetness nectarous-fragrant with desire. He loved the clover and she opened— bright, fearless, certain— the sound of yellow flooding her interior surrendering her nectar into sunlight-passion petals, wings, one heart timelessly infused.
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