Open up to me and show me your petals. Night-bloomer, wishy-washy belief. Late-bloomer that’s me. Strong strong stems supporting the fruit, the meaning, the show-off. Petals so delicate they would feel like soft kisses or soft tears, or a ten-week-old puppy’s ears. All kinds of colors red and white and purple and blue and teal and turquoise. Smell like nature, so sweet, heady, earthy, natural. Sometimes overly perfume-y. Sometimes it stuffs up my noses. The bees dig it more than me. That’s the honey, that’s the pollen, that’s their lifeblood. In the summer time if you sit out side on my warped wooden deck in the backyard, when it is warm and humid, there are choruses of cicadas singing and talking, starting up and then dying away. Neighbor’s dog barks, there may be a car horn thrown in there too. Maybe freshly mowed grass. But on this deck there are two planters of flowers that my parents with upkeep or replace every season. And the bees love these planters. They love the flowers, especially the ones that are thin and tall and have little nodes protruding all the way up their stalks; littler floral nodes. And these bees gracefully fly over early in the morning and hop from node to node, perfectly content, buzzing about. Some full grown, some babies, but definitely bumblebees. They are large, fuzzy black and yellow. They do not mind that you keep them company, as long as you don’t interfere with their work, their livelihood, their life. I could watch them all day. And they do stay all day. Usually from way in the morning, until the sun goes down. It makes me feel special that our yard can accommodate these bees, especially when many are dying out. I’m sure their honey tastes so sweet. And I wonder if it’s the same bees come back every year, or if this crucial information on where the best flowers are are shared with the hive before death, whispered into another’s bee’s ear. Perhaps their consciousness and though absorb through their honeycomb like a last dying breath of sorts. I’ve never seen their hive. I don’t know where they live or commute from. Hornets are a different story. They are thin and angry. Their hives have popped up on my house throughout the years, always to be removed by a professional. Lately they haven’t come back, but once in a while they do.

Seeing a flower bloom in real time is probably so beautiful, too beautiful and that’s why stop-motion –

Author: Roe

she/her. Songwriter & Trek Punk Soul™.

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