One Flower.

Fleeting people,

Focussed mass, hurried streets,

Surely we’d nearly met.

So many not quites,

As bee’s feeding from the same tree,

About our day to day,

Driving rains keeping sight to shoes.

Then that day, break in cloud,

Blue and single clouds in reflected window,

We approached the same bloom,

Not knowing, blissful unaware,

Our presence appearing, that magical hour,

Two bee’s about to drink sweet nectar,

From this tree,

With one flower.