To write for masses, or the rarest few;
To penetrate, or keep it floral light?
Though deeply drawn, a flower’s form can’t show
The sudden joy we feel at first clear sight.
Yet like the humble bee, we are beguiled—
Though fooled, he serves a greater cause for sure;
His prize not scent, but nectar, undefiled
That feeds both force and frame with forage pure;

So in our readings we such worth may find,
The sweet ambrosia that sustains the soul,
Be it deep meaning, or what charms the mind,
Each finds a feast to make their essence whole.
Still of this plight, such thoughts return to tease—
To pollinate for purpose, or appease?

© Loubert S Suddaby. All Rights Reserved.