Spike

Spike has grown fairy flowers -- tiny, yellow, beloved of bees. The five-petal flowers huddle along the edges, between the barbs, protruding from the thin edge rather than the soft center. A delicate display of darlings that arch their backs in the sunshine, open-hearted, and smiling into breath. 

The golden ginger in my tea bites the tip of my tongue like one of the barbs protecting diminutive flowers that often bunch in threes on satin skin, contrast dancing hand-in-hand. 

The flowers speak as one: 

“I am the container for the mid-spaces, the nectar of the in-betweens for those rushing edges and intense barbs. I blossom in the middle of extremes, often out on a ledge of vision and inspiration, inhaling every breeze and nuance of color that plummets from the sky or pushes up from the earth as She breathes. My nibs have bloomed in a moment of daring. I offer my soma to the occasional stray bee who has flown off his path seeking something more than the others in his hive. Will he tell others about me? He has to make lots of stops, pausing as he buzzes from one fragile waxen flower to another, picking up bitty amounts of precious pollen one pinhead dot at a time. He flies away but then comes right back ... “just a little more” he says and then gathers. Does he wonder if he will ever get enough? I rest in the peace of offering what I have created, blooming through both dark and light.”