On the chipped windowsill
Rests a young flower
With petals of pure, pristine white
In a cracked clay pot.

Gazing at the flourishing
World beyond the glass,
Her stem slouches and
Her leaves limp.

She marvels at the bee
As he crawls through
The hidden crevasse
Of the window.

Floating in his beautiful
Coat of obsidian and gold,
He delicately lands
On her petals.

He, the bee, aborbs
Her yellow sweetness
With lacivious intent,
To which she, the flower, complies.

Soon the bee flutters away,
Leaving the flower, a dingy white,
Continuing to gaze at the
World beyond the glass.