a big beary bumble bee
feeding on arctic bearberry
the fuse is lit
through mats of fibres
sap wicks up
lusting to bloom
All the primroses sayWake up! Winter's over.
Come and peer down on us
with eyes full of willow catkins.
Which of our two shades is primrose yellow?
Why not the other one?
Violets are so blue.
Celandines so gold and glossy.
You have to bare your soul
or bees will not come.
We are not afraid of the pig
though he seems wary of the way we gaze at him.
We may look innocent but we are sex machines.
Pin and thrum. Vive la difference!
Of course we do this every year.
It is not a ritual. It is survival.
Birds are singing of love and so are we.
What do you mean you cannot hear us?
Are you listening?
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