the batteries of orchards

It's a truly gorgeous day here in New York City; I wore a polka dot dress and red lipstick to brunch, and now I am sitting on my couch with all the windows open.

Bless air's gift of sweetness, honey
from the bees, inspired by clover,
marigold, eucalyptus, thyme,
the hundred perfumes of the wind.
Bless the beekeeper

                              who chooses for her hives
a site near water, violet beds, no yew,
no echo. Let the light lilt, leak, green
or gold, pigment for queens,
and joy be inexplicable but there
in harmony of willowherb and stream,
of summer heat and breeze,
                                         each bee's body
at its brilliant flower, lover-stunned,
strumming on fragrance, smitten.

                                                  For this,
let gardens grow, where beelines end,
sighing in roses, saffron blooms, buddleia;
where bees pray on their knees, sing, praise
in pear trees, plum trees; bees
are the batteries of orchards, gardens, guard them.

—Carol Ann Duffy (b. 1955), "Virgil's Bees," from The Bees, 2009/2013.

I bought this book last year, in no small part because of the title—I am pretty easy for bee-related merchandise, because I am a bit of a Renaissance Humanist in my heart—and it's a wonderful collection. I really like Carol Ann Duffy.