Sandyshots: Where the Bee Knows the Way

Love is not always a rose.
Sometimes, it’s a thistle—armored, electric with ache, defiant in bloom.
Still, the bee comes.

There is a secret language between wing and wildflower,
a dialogue written in scent, in trust, in color too fierce to fade.
This is my Summer of Love:
a meeting of fierce forms, both whole, both willing.
Not polished. Not posed.
Just presence—buzzing with the divine.