How can petals lift one up when they—themselves—are down-drooping?

Pseudosopher posits that some are only meant to cheer opossums and bats, but even the tosticated sloth knows orientation matters not regarding a rose and its power to pink-tickle toes.

An integument scratched deserves a balm, so, perhaps, a twisted bloom merits some calm—by way of a spritz and a lamp and some hoot for the root.

Then, in that exemplary act of give-not-receive, one might find elevation in not the normed expectation, but from a self-revelation: boosts do share to the pair when handled with care. ; )


Ah, I see that inside the envelope is a thank-you card from the queen bee. She must be pleased that her workers found their greeze in the sunflowers waving in the breeze while the drones were dallying by way of bending knees. Alas, though, was there no buzzer to emit a tocsin when the smoke folk cloaked in brusquerie came to claim not-their comb so hastily? Wait! This is not a note of thanks; it is a note of please. The queen must be needing more sunny blooms to nectarize her crew and so she wrote to the friendliest-and-seediest-albeit-in-a-sowing-and-not-a-hoeing-wink-wink-kind-of-way gardener she knew. Phew! Let me grab my packets and spade so that we can get some growing in queue! ; )


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