Smiling at the bees

Walking through the park
I pass through
a field of wild roses.
The scent calls to me,
and I follow the narrow path
along the pond's edge
into the thicket,
and stand in their midst,
blue sky overhead
reflecting in each pale blossom,
and drink in the sweetness,
the gift that smells like...
well...
like love.
Each blossom so like her sisters --
some petals paler than others,
some centers greener than others --
but all lift their faces greedily to the light
converting it to perfume
and spilling it into the morning
while smiling at the bees.


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