The bumblebee points east to my north, perfectly still inside the rumble of her wings.
She is a queen and blind to red. She has left her six eggs burrowed in the bowl of wax beneath the rock beside the iris. Were I to lean, were I to tip just so, were I to close my eyes for just this moment, I would brush her pollinated hair with my long lashes and steal glimmers of the world through stolen nectar.
She tocks on the current, holds. She slides and resumes and holds. Gyrates south, turns east, and holds. Still within her wings, still within the she-hover that women do when their babies are as far as the iris nearest the stone.
Afternoon, and the sky around the heart is blue.
The words you wrote here, the place you brought to us, my gosh this is sublime.
I can see her, and you leaning close! What a beautiful way to begin my day with you and the bumblebee queen doing her she-hover because she has a wax nest under the rock by the iris. Thank you!