1249. The bee’s life is like a magic well: the more you draw from it, the more it fills with water. ~Karl Von Frisch

Bees do have a smell, you know,
and if they don’t they should,
for their feet are dusted with
spices from a million flowers.
~Ray Bradbury

Screen Shot 2016-09-06 at 4.21.15 PM.png

I could do that.
I could nuzzle into those blossoms,
bury my nose in that corolla,
rub my belly all over with that
succulent pollen.

Screen Shot 2016-09-06 at 4.12.54 PM.png

I could live in that body
with the requisite pose,
with the honeybee’s reticent
enthusiasm,

Screen Shot 2016-09-06 at 7.00.03 PM.png

never taking too much from any one blossom,
never quarreling with my fellow foragers,
keeping my pollen-sacs well-balanced,
eyes shined, antennae erect

Screen Shot 2016-09-06 at 4.18.35 PM.png

I could master the dance steps–
I love to dance.
And I have no qualms about
humming the solar anthem
dawn to dusk,
praising the fire in my wings as the one
and only engine of pure transport.

Screen Shot 2016-09-06 at 6.56.32 PM.png

Just don’t ask me
to enter the hive. I get anxious
even thinking of that buzzing horde,
packed together in angelic densities. Inside
I can’t tell which are the brood chambers
and which are the tombs, which is the honeycomb
and which are the catacombs.

Screen Shot 2016-09-06 at 4.30.21 PM.png

To whom do I bow? Where do I spit?
What if the guard bees take me for an interloper?
And what will the queen do
if she catches me alone?

Screen Shot 2016-09-06 at 4.10.20 PM.png

So maybe
I’m not ready for that life.
Maybe I haven’t even figured out
how to be a human–

Screen Shot 2016-09-06 at 4.25.53 PM.png

how to walk straight
pay attention,
try to keep my head out of the clouds.
~Honeybeeing by Charles Goodrich

Eat honey, my son, for it is good; honey from the comb is sweet to your taste. ~Proverbs 24:13 ✝

**Images via Pinterest and Pixabay

1223. Color is joy. One does not think joy. One is carried by it. ~Ernst Hass

Joy is the sweet voice, Joy the luminous cloud–
We in ourselves rejoice!
And thence flows all that charms our ear or sight,
All melodies, the echoes of that voice
All colors a suffusion from that light.
~Samuel Taylor Coleridge

Screen Shot 2016-08-10 at 3.24.50 PM.png

From my hate-the-heat perspective the garden being adorned with crown jewels like these in the collage is one of the few saving graces of a Texas summer. If these flowers had voices instead of brilliant colors, I think that even as buds whose colors had not yet been revealed they would start the day off with soft, murmuring melodies. Then as the day’s flames licked up higher and higher and they burst into bloom, their songs would play on but in loud and bold arias so that the bees, the butterflies, and other pollinators would harken to their lusty, changeling voices. And all the while as the harmonies played on, the insect benefactors would suckle on the tasty fare despite the sizzling sultriness. And I, I would remain the envious onlooker because it is only they and not I who are small enough to crawl down into the gloriously-filled caverns of sweet nectars. Then at day’s end in weariness from performing their noisy choruses and from enduring the onslaught of mugginess their songs would give way to those of the white and silver flowery voices that mingle in with the enlarging and marvelous music of the night. As for me, though saddened by their silence and passing, I would have agree with Barbara Kingsolver who said that “in the places that call me out, I know I’ll recover my wordless childhood trust in the largeness of life and its willingness to take me in” again, another day. Another writer once said that in the isolation and silence of winter one can savor belonging to him or herself. And who knows, perhaps summer allows one to do the same but in a different way, especially when that individual is falling short of being thankful for God’s gifts by fussing about the way they are wrapped.

You(God) turned my wailing into dancing; you removed my sackcloth and clothed me with joy… ~Psalm 30:11  ✝

**All images taken by me in my yard; not all were taken on the same days

1181. People from a planet without flowers would think we must be mad with joy the whole time to have such things about us. ~Iris Murdoch

[F]lowers… adorn our lanes, fields and fells, and…
smile upon us and cheer and bless us in our country rambles….
the lovely blossoms…
kiss the clear brooks and mountain wells…
~James Rigg

Screen Shot 2016-06-16 at 2.54.38 PM.png

I know someone who kisses the way
a flower opens, but more rapidly.
Flowers are sweet. They have
short, beatific lives. They offer
much pleasure. There is nothing
in the world that can be said
against them. Sad, isn’t it,
that all they can kiss is the air.

Yes, yes! We are the lucky ones. ~Mary Oliver

Greet one another with a holy kiss. ~2 Corinthians 13:12 ✝

**Image taken by Natalie

1131. The rose is without an explanation; she blooms because she blooms. ~Angelus Silesius

Roses of the field whisper divine poetry,
but you must listen carefully to hear it
because noise from the wheels of progress
drowns out everything that sings.
~Edited poem by Judith Cody

Screen Shot 2016-04-26 at 8.17.11 PM

You love the roses – so do I. I wish
The sky would rain down roses!
Why will it not?
Then all the valley would be pink and red
And soft to tread on. They would fall as light
As feathers, smelling sweet; and it would be
Like sleeping and like waking, all at once!
~Edited poem by George Elliot

Screen Shot 2016-04-26 at 7.52.22 PM

He(the Lord) will cover you with his feathers, and under his wings you will find refuge; his faithfulness will be your shield and rampart. ~Psalm 91:4  ✝

**Image of my Night Owl roses

1129. Butterflies dot springtime with flitting airy kisses. ~Terri Guillemets

The butterfly long loved the beautiful rose,
And flirted around all day;
While round him in turn with her golden caress,
Soft fluttered the sun’s warm ray…
~Excerpt from a poem by
Heinrich Heine

Screen Shot 2016-04-24 at 9.33.51 PM.png

Butterfly, butterfly, where are you going?
Do you dine today with the regal rose
Or nectar sip with the lilies blowing
In the golden noontide’s sweet repose?
Away, away, on silken pinions,
Gay guest of Flora’s proudest minions.

Or will you pause midst the fragrant clover
And their humbler viands not despise,
While the proud tuberoses wait their lover
And the pansies smile from their velvet eyes?
Away, away, on dainty pinions
Gay guest in Flora’s fair dominions.
~Excerpted verses from a poem by
Martha Lavinia Hoffman

Screen Shot 2016-04-24 at 9.52.24 PM.png

Flowers appear on the earth; the season of singing has come, the cooing of doves is heard in our land. ~Song of Songs 2:12  ✝

**Top image found on Pinterest; edited bottom image found on the Internet

1113. Spring comes: the flowers learn their colored shapes. ~Maria Konopnicka

Spring makes its own statement,
so loud and clear that the gardener
seems to be only one of the instruments,
not the composer.
~Geoffrey B. Charlesworth

Screen Shot 2016-04-04 at 3.56.27 PM.png

In the great gardens, after bright spring rain,
We find sweet innocence come once again,
White periwinkles, little pensionnaires,
With muslin gowns and shy and candid airs,

Screen Shot 2016-04-04 at 3.49.49 PM.png

That under saint-blue skies, with gold stars sown,
Hide their sweet innocence by spring winds blown,
From zephyr libertines that like Richelieu
And d’Orsay their gold-spangled kisses blew;

Screen Shot 2016-04-04 at 3.58.08 PM.png

And lilies of the valley whose buds blonde and tight
Seem curls of little schoolchildren that light
The priests’ procession, when on some saint’s day
Along the country paths they make their way;

Screen Shot 2016-04-04 at 3.53.10 PM.png

Forget-me-nots, whose eyes of childish blue,
God-starred like heaven, speak of love still true;
And all the flowers that we call “dear heart,”
Who say their prayers like children, then depart

Screen Shot 2016-04-04 at 4.01.00 PM.png

Into dark. Amid the dew’s bright beams
The summer airs, like Weber waltzes, fall
Round the first rose who, flushed with her youth, seems
Like a young Princess dressed for her first ball.

Screen Shot 2016-04-04 at 3.52.16 PM.png

Who knows what beauty ripens from dark mould
After the sad wind and the winter’s cold? —
But a small wind sighed, colder than the rose
Blooming in desolation, “No one knows.”
~Edith Sitwell

Screen Shot 2016-04-04 at 3.48.37 PM.png

I will maintain my innocence and never let go of it; my conscience will not reproach me as long as I live. ~Job 27:6  ✝

**Images found on Pinterest

 

871. A bee is an exquisite chemist. ~Royal Beekeeper to Charles II

  A work of arte; yet no arte of man,
Can worke this worke, these little creatures can.
~Geffrey Whitney, 1586

Screen shot 2015-09-14 at 8.24.54 PM

Bees work for man, and yet they never bruise
Their Master’s flowers, but leave it having done,
As fair as ever and as fit to use;
So both the flower doth stay and the honey run.
~George Herbert

Screen shot 2015-09-14 at 8.40.02 PM

There is one masterpiece, the hexagonal cell, that touches perfection. No living creature, not even man has achieved, in the centre of his sphere, what the bee has achieved in her own: and were some one from another world to descend and ask of the earth the most perfect creation of the logic of life, we should needs have to offer the humble comb of honey. ~Maurice Maeterlinck, 1924

Screen shot 2015-09-14 at 8.33.22 PM

Hello gardeners! Please try to resist tidying away the hollow plant stems in your garden in the autumn and instead wait to the following year. They may have tiny bees hibernating inside! www.buzzaboutbees.net

Gracious words are a honeycomb, sweet to the soul and healing to the bones. ~Proverbs 16:24  ✝

**All images via Pinterest; collages by Natalie