With the breeze brings an increase in the warm, invigorating spring rain. Drowned and content, they sprout up from the softened dirt in allowance for the covered bees to kiss them softly, spread pollen across thick yet fragile petals, and leave them to lay satisfied, soaking in the sun. What a pity if left unpollinated. Wilting, her petals fall, swallowed by dissatisfaction, or the cold and harsh Earth. Wasted molecules and odorous buds; dying, dying, as winter comes. And why should a woman not write of it? The dripping rain, the stout torso of the oaks and the slim necks of rose. Tenderly, I crave both rose and oak alike. I wish to understand their texture against my soft and pale flesh. Yet, I remain frozen. Sprouting from a single branch, I remain so far away from these plural desires; singular restraint.