I am the flower that loves the bumblebee.

As he flits and flips and fluts between the daffodil-darlings,
flirting with the puckered tulip's twins,
dancing and dipping and diving between
the outstretched limbs of the persimmons.

I am the flower that loves the bumblebee.

Anticipating that moment when I am to be envied,
Patiently waiting to be loved at my turn,
before he is gone and on to another,
leaving me alone and hoping for his return.

I am the flower that loves the bumblebee.

Hopelessly devoted to a free-flying spirit,
whilst helplessly grounded amongst many
perhaps prettier,
perhaps,
but equally doomed to share him for eternity.