I don’t love you! he says in the winter before he’s even met her.
The woman loves him first.
Love comes from the woman and grows.
First she loves herself, then him, then it begins.
Then she shows it.
The fructiferous, fecund spring floret
entices, gesticulates and wafts her
puissant, firm yellow, orange, or red hips
and engulfs the inconversant, comatose, innocent
male insect into her luscious, succulent, wet, petals
from the morning dew…
He wanders in, unwittingly, smelling the familiar pollen
gifted by the stamen.
Hermaphrodite freak, as arable and luxuriant as can be.
The blossom accidentally feeds the male with her nectar
and in, keen, eager, yearning for her ambrosia that is the natural wine of love…
he is silent.
You don’t love me? You haven’t drunk a drop.
When a woman decides she wants to wrap her wet pussy around a particular man, kiss him deeply and long, give him her sexual energy, her feelings, and activate her heart, he thinks he fell in love with her all by himself and initiated it. Then she feeds him a delicious meal. Don’t do all of that woman unless you’re sure you want him to stay!
Her body and her will took him if she knows what she’s doing. That’s my problem. My body wants to do all of that but I like being alone. Damn. I can’t lure him in then step on it. Women do that to men too much.
She picked him, started it, covered all the bases, and he finished it.
But can she continue in that love? Nature keeps changing her. Maybe she shouldn’t start at all because autumn will come again, then winter, and she must die back and return to the soil.
They are both undone and it’s only spring.