I envy the honey bee
that hovers over her open flower,
then plunges in,
stirring up nectar with
such passion as I can
only wish I had,
his singer bringing her pleasure
instead of pain.
I envy her as she welcomes him,
spreading her petals wide
to receive his offering,
like a bride on her wedding night,
though she is no bride,
and every night is a honeymoon,
even when it is not him
playing the part of
groom.
The soft touch of leaves,
the potent scent she exudes
as she shudders under
the touch of his fingers,
tongue, stinger, going deep,
searching for her essence,
intent on making the most
of this intense moment of her life,
the bee hovering and plunging,
digging up the secrets of joy within her.
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