February 24, 2014


All night the flower,
petals tightly closed against
depredations of moth and moon
remains firmly resistant to their blandishments.

Once the sun begins to rise,
the caress of light begins to play along the petals,
warming the flower, as your embrace warms me.

Coaxing gently, persistently, the light glows.
soft kisses of butterfly and bee batter delicately,
waiting for the flower to open, for the petals to relax,
just as your kisses cajole and allure and induce and beguile.

The choice belongs to me, as it does the flower.
Whether to open and glory in the sun, stigmas revealed to preferred
visitors, bees, legs fat with pollen, sipping the nectar prepared for them
in exchange for flower-ripening life.

Do they shudder with delight, as I do,
when they are penetrated, plundered, partaken?

Do flowers groan with bliss upon an insect kiss?

Do they wait, impatient, for the next encounter?



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