Pocket full of no posies, rather rosies—hues of White Zinfandel, Bloody Caesar, and peach wine.

A tortoise would give the first one a munch. The second one could quell a glunch. Should the third one complement best friend’s daily scrunch?

From a behind place, pontificates a voice picking on another’s picked choice, so hips and drifts and lips remain unturned.

Blooms feel cared by a gullywasher—and, as well, the sulky-watcher who brings them to purpose outside familiar ground. ; )