In Bloom

Blooms abound, even now.

Even during World War 1 and the 1918-1919 influenza pandemic, the poppies bloomed. The poppies and the apple trees and the orange and lemon trees bloomed. And the bees came and danced among the petals and stamen and pistil of them all. Somewhere amid those fields, there was joy and dancing, even it was just the bees. There was hope, a promise of harvest in fall and winter.

The bees have returned here and are doing their jitterbug among the blooms of my lemon and orange tree. I was afraid they were lost, but as my daughter reminded me, I just had to wait for the weather to warm their hives. Just a little waiting and then, as the sun is out, and my doors and windows open, I can see the bees from here, from my desk, if I’m still enough and focus enough. They are there, among the green leaves and white blossoms outside my door.

Under the tree, on the ground, white petals are like lacework. They have fallen, edging toward the end of their bloom cycle. They first appeared last month in our week of warm days, possibly confused and thinking spring had truly come. The blooms dazzled us those few warm days and called out to the bees, but none came. Then. I worried. Hummingbirds and a few odd flies fretted among the blossoms, when it was still cool, barely warm. And some petals fell, so many of them fell, before the party and the bees’ dancing began. But there are enough petals, enough blooms left on the branches, enough for a crop of lemons next Christmas season when the bees have finished their party. There is hope.

I lean into the simple task of watching the bees amid what today is over 185,000 deaths, 2,100 in the U.S. for yesterday alone. So the bees are dancing, and I can almost hear their music, if I’m still enough. Loss and hope in the same breath. I am thankful for spring.

I think I’ll wander in the sun for a while and see what else is blooming.