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
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