By Vanessa Vanaria

A vibrant and colorful plant basked in the summer light.

Its carmine leaves were gingerly kissed by sun rays.

It did not yet know that it ached for the touch of something more.

A simple bee, exhausted by its trip, decided to rest on the leaf of the plant.

The plant felt the tingle of fuzz, a brush of contact so soft and gentle.

The plant caressed the bee within itself.

The bee nestled its tiny body against the leaf of the plant.

The warm breeze carried out the sweet scent of flowers.

The bee was content in pretending, 

To envision the plant was a flower, 

That its leaves were velvety petals.

The bee began its nap in the hazy summer heat.

But the plant was not a flower.

And the wind continued to carry out the intoxicating scent from a nearby garden, 

Where flowers bloomed, filled with nectar and pollen.

The plant did not have those, 

But the plant was colorful too.

Was it not enough?

Aroused out of sleep from the nearby aroma,

The bee was done pretending.

The bee’s wings fluttered,

A buzzing hum was heard as it lifted off the leaf.

It left,

Abandoning the plant.

The plant lost the feeling of the bee,

The warm softness of being wanted.

The bee flew off to the flowers while the plant outstretched itself,

For something that is now intangible yet again.

The plant was alone.

Only now was it aware of the existence of loneliness,

For the previous ignorance was its savior.

The plant had learned,

That you must first have a taste of divinity, 

Before understanding what true bitterness is.

It yearned for something that once belonged to them,

But was it ever really theirs?

And this time the nurturing sunlight was not enough to comfort the solitude.

And the breeze of the flowery fragrance no longer smelled pleasant,

It seemed sour,

Tainted by what it could never be.

The bee never loved the plant.

The plant was not a flower.

---

Photo by william warby for unsplash