There are bumble bees around the corner,
Waiting to land on the tip of your nose.
Thick, flower nectar, dripping from above them,
Fated, to catch you in your, "Hello."

When the beaming sun beams,
We say lovely things,
And spread them about,
For those near,

To feel it within,
To take part in -

To share it with those
Who will hear.

When the sun disappears,
The moon's light rears,
Sprinkling taboo gems about,

For us to tiptoe and choose,
To place in a ruse,
Of words to enjoy during, Lights Out.

Neither a shortage of daisies,
To pluck from this field,
Nor, unwelcoming nuances met,

Only waves of inspiration,
Covered in chosen sensation,

An oasis for the itching poet.