Yellow sneeze dust that tickles my nose and throat. Pre-honey for bees. That bright, golden middle of flowers that link their petals together. Circular nature mandala. If you look close, there is fantastic detail in that floral center. Sweet honey bee vomit. I could never be vegan as to exclude tasty honey from my diet. The Omega Directive. Perfection. Nature perfection is exploring beehives and their architecture, their mechanics, their structure and hierarchy. When spring gets sprung so bad that pollen dusts cars in a parking lot, to where you can write on the window with your finger, like it’s fogged up glass in the wintertime, or steamy, humid, rainy summer time. The buzzing of bees, up with the Sun. Marvelous how animals don’t sleep in, how they automatically know when it’s time to work. I wonder what the bees do when it rains. I’ve never thought about it before. Do they still go to work? Is that when they sleep in? To smell the sweet scent of a flower is lovely, but will probably aggravate allergies. Are there no simple pleasures anymore? Dandelion spores grow and the wind blows each one around and around. It is a thrilling, short-lived flight. Sometimes exasperated echoes sound in reverberant canyons when we are alone and vexed. The flowers that grow in those canyons have different-tasting pollen, different types of bees, and different-tasting honey. The nod slightly with the wind. But the sun is setting now. The bees have gone home. I must also find my shelter, even if it’s only temporary. Sidling like Link looking over a big, steep expanse, my eyes roll up to the direction I need to go in. Third eye, nature preservative, shivering lonely once that sun goes down in Spring. A field full of flowers. Amanda Thripp. Vase full of water with the pharmacy in business. Stocked up, chock-full, rotodendrons. Excusing nothing evolutionary.

Author: Roe

she/her. Songwriter & Trek Punk Soul™.

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