No water. Small village.
All these thirsty blossoms.
Orange.
Yellow.
Weak bushes in hushed soil.
We lulled them by Lilac,
with two eyelids. Puffed.
Purple.
Bruised by honey makers,
swollen from fresh stings.
If it wasn’t for the bees!
If it wasn’t for the bees!
Glass jars come, mocking.
Scarves glaring
from
thin, glass necks.
Metal heads reflecting
time.
Sun time.
September,
this will be me. Smiling.
Displaying flowers.
Preparing honey jars
for guests.
maggiemaeijustsaythis 
Got to like those bees…
Beautiful. Your poetry’s getting better as you write–keep up the great work!
I keep reading this, feeling like I was there.