Along the roadsides now, the summer wildflowers dance.
I walk ankle deep in them, naming them as I go – red clover,
daisy, Queen Anne’s lace, butterfly weed, and tiny yellow ones
whose name I do not know. The air is fragrant with their scents
and the scents of the grasses and of the corn in the fields they line.
Earlier today I learned that to make a single pound of honey, bees
must visit two million flowers. “Here they are! Here they are!”
I call to all four corners as I twirl in joy beneath the early August sun,
laughing because, of course, the bees already know.