I’m a creamy white dinner plate of a flower, flung open on the branch. My petals are thick and waxy, cool to the touch like polished porcelain, and they exhale a subtle, lemony perfume that lingers in the warm air. Inside, a riot of golden stamens, fuzzy and densely packed, buzzes softly with unseen life. I feel almost too heavy for the branch, a glorious, slightly decadent weight of beauty.
Pink Farm Chick 