The bee buzzed a secret to the rose, who swore she’d never tell. But the days grew cold and her head drooped low; the burden became 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 promised to keep the secret to herself. She did until the sweet southern wind came around once more, tapping at her door. Her blushing leaves gave the secret up to him.
This is why there’s no honey this sad, sad spring.
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