The bee buzzed a secret to his friend the rose, who swore she’d never tell, but the days grew cold and her head drooped low, the burden too heavy for her withering petals; she whispered the words to a vagabond crow–what could it hurt, this wandering bird–but he sold the news for a scatter of seeds, the tree promising to keep the secret to herself, which she did until the sweet southern wind came around once more, tapping at her door, and her blushing leaves gave it up to him, which is why there’s no honey this sad, sad spring.


Via confidant.

3 responses to “Confidants

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