For days Hosta had been watching Foxglove, admiring their deep lavender bells, so enticing to the bumble bees. Hosta leaned out over the stone walkway, hoping that Foxglove would notice.
Slowly, almost imperceptibly, Foxglove bent toward the walkway. Hosta trembled with anticipation. . . if only, even the briefest of touches . . .
Alas, it was not to be. A passing dog tore the pair asunder, never to be reunited. But the memory lingers . . .
