My fingers slip around the green, green stems,
cupping then releasing to cup the next,
every flower the same yellow as the cliché sun
drawn and colored on a child’s blank canvas,
what is thought and felt
of the world pulsing within them.
Their petals sway in the surrounding winds,
the same winds that buoy the wings of bees
as they float from flower to flower,
hoping men who examine their actions
don’t use their actions
as an excuse for behavior
of a completely different nature.