Small, darling bee. You seem rather confused.
This leaf you’ve landed upon is in fact my arm,
the capillaries you trace are not of a petal
but instead my wrist, sensitive to the brush of sticky legs.
That sweet sugar is rainbow cookie ice cream residue
from an impulsive afternoon snack, not the pollen you usually seek.
Yet still you cling to me, pausing the exploration
to groom your body for continuous work.
I watch carefully, anticipating your next move,
hoping the leashed dog won’t jerk me to another patch of grass.
But there is no jolt on the cord as he happily sniffs.
There is no sting of disappointment
nor the buzz of anger as you fly off.
Instead, you are just as happy to sit and rest,
at peace in an unlikely situation that would otherwise
terrify others, humans and bees alike when surprised
with the invasive question of “Are you a flower?”
I’m disappointed that I move. Now lowering you towards a dull bush,
and not to a sweeter corner of curbside lavender further away.
Perhaps I’m just too charmed by the sweet confusion
of my messy self being confused for a blooming flower
to recognize that all you needed was just a bit more sugar,
no matter where it came from, as long as where you landed
was just as sweet and protective
as your favorite flower.