why do bees love lavender

note: Mrs. Abstract and I visited the lavender garden in Manzanitas Creek Winery in Sonoma County.last weekend.We tasted wonderful wine especially the 4 different sauvignon blanc.<a

Big correction: The lavender garden is in Matanzas Creek Winery, 6097 Bennett valley Rd. Santa Rosa,CA and NOT Manzanita Creek Winery.
I’m sorry for the mistake.

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Doctor’s pretty phrases

heart murmur’s crescendo and decrescendo, 

cognitive deficits, butterfly rash

What if I remember my wife’s benevolent

face and where I place my hat?

Bees have memories

and age like me.

What if it’s a bee

with cognitive decline?

What will a rose look like

when the bee leafs a garden album?

Will the bee visit me and my wife,

our Wednesday’s picnic at the park?

Will it brush her face,

mistake her ear fo a hive?

Will the bee ride the opposite

flow of scented breeze?

How will the bee feel when dawn

lights each row of rhododendrons?

I wonder how the bees stream

sequencing of flowers, gathering of nectar.

 

I was taught once the path of enigma:

“It is when I am weak that I am strong.”

With each deficit, renewal

each bewilderment, revelation.

Will the bee find

the hidden holiness?

Is there a perfect equivalent in the bee world?

“My goodness, I’m glad you are here.”

When sunset comes will the bee ponder

the existential home: was, is, will be?

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Note: Mrs. Abstract and I  will miss the live demonstration next Saturday by the ladies of Tea Passage at the Grand Hand gallery in Napa on the fine craft of furoshiki, Japanese cloth wrapping.We are up in the mountain for Thanksgiving and huddle like the bees.

photo: of teabags is from a page of Napa Register news

A normal day

I’m neither young nor old

carrying the sea on my shoulders

rises and swerves

in downward spiral.

Rains create

creeks and rivers

linking the mountains

and the sea.

Days of bitterness

intertwine with days of sweetness

waves dashing the calm

and the brave.

Young as a child

old as a man

in tumult or silent

running the fields

or hiding in shelters

pursue birds or fowl

with slingshots or guns

with relish.

How are they to discover

the hidden music

if not to relinquish the savage

feel, cruel pleasure

perceived in power

but over the helpless?

How can they follow

movements of the bees

from flower to flower

when they don’t see

the simple things

visible to the eyes?

At the picnic table

we swat away the bees

they, that fill

stages of sustenance

of meadows and forest.