(1)
Around and about the flowertops,
the bees are as busy as a bee can be.
They flit from little bud to bud,
never lingering long,
as though frenzied with the wealth of possibilities.
Shivering deliciously, they sip the nectar.
Bending, carefully, I bless them each and each.
(2)
I’ve been reading a sort of combination text and memoir by an entomologist, called For Love of Insects. Engagingly written, once you get past the title: for though it’s difficult to love Insects, it’s easy to love a bug.
Right at this moment, across the very piece of paper I am writing on,
a bug is crawling -- a bug that I love.
I let him do his crawlies,
and he lets me write.
We’re a little bit in love, I guess --
a bit just enough for a bug.
(3)
O dear, a deer -- too beautiful.
We stop, drop what we’re doing, and stare,
each astonished
at the other’s loveliness.
And so, we imagine, did our Creator on that day
stand back and gasp
at the newly-minted works of His own hands.
“This is really quite splendid,” said He,
“even for Me.”
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