[Warning: no birds or trees appear in this essay. This is poetic license. The poet in question is songwriter Herbert Newman.]
A friend gave us a beautiful bouquet of flowers on Christmas day; white and purple daisies and lilies, in a purple vase. Because the weather has been so pleasant, we put it on our patio table.
Today I saw a bee hovering over the flowers, now a week old but still beautiful and fresh-looking. The bee then landed on one of the lilies and climbed down into its center. She* then repeated the action with several other flowers, and finally flew away.
A bee visiting a flower is a beautiful thing to see.
But this seemed odd to me. The flowers are technically dead, having been cut from their plants many days ago. But they looked alive to the bee (and me) so she stopped by to fill up with nectar and pollen. It must have been satisfactory, because she repeated it with several flowers.
O Ben Finiti 