Perhaps we are always arriving

at the moment when pollen

becomes prayer, when the small body

heavy with summer's work 

turns toward what it cannot name

but knows with certainty.

See how he carries the world's dust 

on his dark limbs,how he transforms

the flower's offering into flight— 

this ancient alchemy that asks 

nothing of our understanding,

only our attention.

In the garden's first light, 

I watch him disappear

into the sweetcorn tassels,

and something in me recognizes

this devotion, this way 

of being consumed by beauty 

until we become what we love.

What is it we seek 

in our small urgencies? 

The bee knows: to be filled

 with light's golden weight,

 to carry the essential sweetness

 from bloom to bloom

 until the whole garden 

hums with our becoming.