I woke from a heart-breaking nightmare to find
I was a bee in January's death chill.
Hungry and weak, I struggled against harsh wind,
searching for sustenance.
I came upon a flower, closed and stiff.
I blew warm breath, again and again and again,
into frozen petals.
Slowly, oh so slowly,
they turned from ice to rose.
She sighed at my warmth,
exhaled her own steam and peeled open.
In I went, face full into her nectar --
eating life itself.
I bathed in her, consumed and worshipped her,
but then in that bliss wondered,
"can this be real?"
"Yes dear," she cooed,
"it IS real."
"Liar," I thought,
as I slipped into sleep.
No longer a bee,
my hot winter rose is but a memory.
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