Bees have taken over the garden.
their liveliness competes
with slovenly flight of flies,
flies that bite, mercilessly.
Bees never sting me.
They simply move aside
as I weed and prune.
Then move back into the space
I have vacated.
We dance together
in harmony, the bees and I.
There is no waltzing with flies.
I perform a jig
to avoid their biting touch.
I love the bees.
The flies? Not so much.
Filed under POETRY
The me becomes lost
amidst all of thee crowding,
flower choked by weeds.
Filed under POETRY
The bees have memorized my face.
They gracefully recognize my place
in the garden, stretching and bending low
to deadhead and weed the beds
of the flowers we grow,
that they may feast on nectar so sweet.
Dusted by pollen which flavors our honey,
the bees and I manufacture joy and delight
that melts on the tongue and lights the eye.
Laborers together, in our garden, the bees and I.
Filed under POETRY
It is not just the poppy that addicts.
All flowers do to those
who make gardens grow.
Over rocky , stubbled fields
replacing weeds with scented folds
of roses petaled
in circled fashion we all know.
Flowers call our names
even when we know not theirs,
from rows and rows and rows
of nurseried plants shouting aloud
“Take me home. Take me home!”
So many languages flowers speak.
Gardeners yearn to learn them all,
each one part of a diverse melody
which sings a siren’s song.
The garden is a symphony
of chords and rhythms strong
enough to carry feet along
new paths from dawn to dusk
to worlds unknown beyond.
Strong enough to lift up all
who wander through the varied colors,
kissed by bees and butterflies
taking us along on a joyous ride
to the one place for which we long.
A place of unity and uncommon beauty
freed from wilderness, our wildness tamed;
and fear buried beneath the soil
where it belongs.
Like flowers, in gardens we reach for the sun
and welcome the rain to quench our thirst
for freedom, friendship and mirth.
Filed under POETRY
annarino writes 