Heather Grace Stewart

I’m busy as a bee, can’t you see? It makes me seem important,

like sand to the sea. The busy ones are achieving, while

the rest of us, just dreaming, and time is the green stuff

in an age where love is not enough. But year after year,

rushing flower to hive; pocket full of pollen, does it make me feel alive?

This year will be different. I’ll spend the currency of time.

An hour with my mother is worth all the world’s dimes.

Never too busy to help out a friend, to walk in the woods,

to seek ’round the bend. Never too busy to sit under the sky,

watch the clouds rolling, wipe a tear from her eye.

I’m busy as a bee, it’s what we all say.

But, this year, I’m a flower. I’ll blossom and sway.