Swarming in with poisoned tips tucked
under innocence,
Nature’s vengeance dancing from
flower to flower,
no matter the color,
or the size,
or shape.
They are the thieves of each unique
fragrance,
and I wonder,
Do they watch for the tulip to open toward the warmth of the sun?
Do they wait for a rose to display her heart proudly?
Do they time each moment precisely
for attack?
The light of the sun is unconditional;
food for the flowers,
heat for the thieves,
and on those magical days,
when I am the Bells of Ireland,
exposed,
hungry for the warmth of my Sun,
they swarm in and attack!
maggiemaeijustsaythis 