'All nature seems at work ... The bees are stirring—birds are on the wing ... and I the while, the sole unbusy thing, not honey make, nor pair, nor build, nor sing.'

My fingers can’t trace the origin of the age old euphemism
Its roots planted firmly in childhood paired with sitcom cliches
A conversation never had with my mother

I learned the moment he touched me
My mind buzzed as the sweetest nectar kissed my lips
Arms turned to wings and we flew away

The age of fourteen
A baby learning where babies come from
Innocence poured out like an overfilled glass of milk

When he left I was a hummingbird
Heart at 1260 beats per minute
Fading in and out of anxiety

He was the bee
Flew to the next delicate flower
and ****** her dry like a parasitic insect

Always told to be weary of disguised villains
Old women with apples
Wolves dressed like grandmothers
Never of the natural behavior of pollination