Bees work for man and yet they never bruise their master’s
flower, but leave it, having done, as fair as ever, and as fit to use; so both
the flower does stay, and honey run. George Herbert Providence
Yellow, black and a single
stroke of red; Too big I cannot fathom
how you fly with wings so small
From summer’s last stand
into the arms of beckoning fall; The freezing threat
hastens you to glean the last of summer’s nectar; Jumping from flower to
flower each one brings new hope into the air;
The violet and blush of
summer colors fade now with the crisps nights; And mild days...
Piper Green ©
2012
