Relaxing in the garden, leaning against the old willow tree
Watching, with curious, a shimmery all black bee
Its bibulous body, paper thin wings
Are uneven with this chilling wind
A bee, in the middle of the cold
A bee, so beautiful and bold
Hunches over to a blooming bud
The only color in the frozen mud
He sputters and he shakes
With his wings so close to break
Then, he lands, with a sigh
As if to tired to fly
He sniffs the sweet nectar
Then leaves, the center
As if offended by the stench
And he zooms from the wench
So I stand, I walk to the deserted flower
And as I watch it seems to lower
Poor deserted rose
How it grew, only some know
I pick it, I sniff it
With a turn of my lips, drop it
So sickly sweet like caramel and cake
I hate it, loathe, this plate
for it is as he knows
Nothing but another rose