The honeybee sets out each morning,
A sole worker with a craving
For the sweet nectar.
The hive can only thrive
When the collective work together.
Her day’s task is at hand
And she visits her first flower.
Drunk on its sweet nectar,
She is seduced.
And the sweet rose is the only flower
She will visit on this day’s journey.
The rose’s branches entwine
and climb up a pole.
Up and up.
The honeybee has found her bounty,
And whether conscious or drunk,
She has made her way back home
At the workday’s end.
Who knows the mystery of what
Tomorrow’s flower may be.
Perhaps a dandelion,
Tonight she is where she belongs.
The succulent fruit
hangs from the peach tree
just waiting to be plucked.
With just a small amount of force
the branch gives way its bounty.
A tight snag
Then a snap with release.
The shape is like a little sun
A glowing orb
cupped in my hand.
The orchard is full
of these golden jewels.
A bounty of sweet joy.
A little green leaf
left its mark
on the flesh
with a little shade from the rays.
The rays gave it nourishment
And now I jubilantly hold
It close to me.
I smell its fuzzy soft skin
and take a bite.
Oh, succulent ripe peach!
Its juices no longer contained
and they release out
with the scent of summer
And the creative potential
to alchemize into something more
than a mere glowing orb
on a tree
just waiting for the right
to bring its gifts
What seemed impossible
to the little blossom
when the sun whispered,
“You are more than what you seem.
You just wait and have faith.”
And I’m at awe to see
It bloomed into joy.
The lives that dream beyond the window pane
a glimpse into the soul
but I can never surmise what is really there.
I see a middle-aged woman bending over
is she too old and unable to stand upright?
Does she use a cane or a walker?
Is she always carrying a heavy load along with a heavy heart?
She is bending over to what I can’t see. I am curious about her life. Does she suffer? Did she ever feel pride and proud of her accomplishments?
I can wonder and assume. I find that I transpose my feelings as if we share one heart, one life, one soul. But the story is not mine.
She is bent way down and I can just see the top of her grayish hair pulled into a high bun on her head. What mysteries lay out of my sight.
Now she moves. She is standing once more. Her arms are full with the warm embrace of a child that she lifts up so they can talk and see each other eye to eye.
The child and the woman are smiling and the woman starts swaying a gentle dance. Is there music? Is there song?
Her eyes and face are bright. She no longer seems bent over, weak and worn. She is full of life with the sweet babe who lights her soul and mine as I continue to pass on my way.
A smile on my face that she is not suffering nor am I. The world is lovely and has tender moments and I’m grateful to be the silent witness of this loving magic that fills the air.