Bluebells my flower of choice,
For their smell and their colour,
The way they look in the rain,
Waving in and out of the each other in the wind.
Fluttering slightly at each supple breath,
Clasping like fingertips,
Palms collapsing on one another in the due,
Intertwining during the morning haze in the dawn of dusk till morning as the winter fades away,
Till the crisp kiss of its petals scent pronounce the end of the cycle
And the bluebells fade away only to rise again next April