Even after a thorough washing, the fingertips of my left hand wear the strong scent of marigolds — this from having plucked three mostly dried blooms from their plants. On each side of the marigolds, we have lobelia in two clay pots. The pots and the marigolds are on an old mossy concrete bench. The bench looks like it belongs in a cemetery. Bees love the lobelia. The lobelia love bees. Maybe this love is not just like the love I feel for them, but it might be. The bees are working. What is the lobelia doing? Am I working? What am I doing? The lobelia has grown well beyond the pots. Their branches are supported along the rims. When a bee visits a flower near the end of one of the branches, the branch bends beneath the bee’s weight, but it doesn’t break. I think this is what I mean when I say the flowers love the bees. Imagine you’ve been invited to kiss the flower of your choice. Imagine the flower responding in this gentle way. Imagine hundreds, thousands, millions of such invitations being sent all around the world each and every day. This is no small thing. Imagine words being flowers. Imagine flowers being words. Imagine the earth being one grand hive. Imagine honey warm on your tongue and running down your arms. And now comes your love.
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