Wordsworth writes of daffodils,

roses, daisies, mountains, and hills.

Of dancing waves.

But I see just flowers,

good and sweet,

the wind howling to a beat

set by the ferocious sea,

dancing to swallow in glee.

I see just flowers,

tortured every day by bees.

They say it is so they form a seed—

poked and prodded for progeny.

Reminding me.

I see each flower,

some destined to follow the sun,

ignoring the heat, the burn.

It is destined, you see.

-a well-disguised misery. -

This is "how it should be."