The Little Bee

In my garden, I see a bee
entering and leaving
the pumpkin flowers.

Yellow like the sun
that wakes the morning,

its small, golden,
black-striped body
glides lightly
toward another flower.

I hear its buzzing wings,

and a soft quiver
passes through the garden.

The stillness trembles
in the yellow hush
of flowers.

With tenderness—unhurried—

it hovers,
choosing where to land.

It descends
into the opened flower,

then emerges
with its body
dusted with pollen.

A gentle breeze drifts through.

The silence lingers,

and the other flowers wait
in their patient hush.

I keep watching

as it traces
its small paths
through the blossoms—

unhurried,
unperturbed.

Its small body glows
in the morning light,

and the day unfolds
around its gentle work.

I think:

Have I gotten
to the place
where I am meant to be?

I don’t think so.

I still have work to do.

Thank you,
little bee.