Remember when we found that imperfect spot by the trees;
with the hive of bees?
Immature happy to be away from the crowd;
they are way too loud.
Warped were we; thinking crowds missed our plans.
Looking sketchy, holding hands.
Intimate plans turned to dud,
little brother threw a rock with a thud!
Angry bees shamed us away, their secrets for birds alone.
That imperfect spot by the trees, began a love still known.
©2017 E. R. Smith