~ 100 million year old bee found sipping flowers
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What if I or you are really a 100 million year old bee found sipping flowers.!
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Reading from an essay in an old American Poetry Review… I had drawn a box around this one phrase–
a recent discovery in Burma of a 100 million year old bee found in amber along with four tiny flowers it was sipping.
Amber is an incredible thing; tree sap. It over time solidifies like ice or glass; holds in what it captured, like the heart must. It set me to imagining we all have little things set in amber fluids, crystalized within us. Memories, loves, voices saying things in certain tones, faces, relationships; sunlight slanting through gauze curtains onto floors. Little sensual bubbles or times we can or can not even remember holding in memory.
The essay I was reading asked, what would poet Emily Dickinson make (for a poem) out of reading this new found image. The image–of a million year old bee drinking like a lover the four tiny flowers it had always wanted to taste. What flowers will we peek into tomorrow or tonight and sip. What, and when will we stop wondering what a dead artist would make out of those images, and come to life ourselves, and make our own sticky light drenched poems or paintings or photos or sculptures or anything… out of the things that strike the chord of our hearts.
Life is short, and who knows, Emily Dickinson’s poetry might just be like the bee found in the amber–in 100 million years, found by someone, found and drunk like sipping new dew from a very old flower.
What of us will be here in 100 million years, and looked at, through, with the light of the future?
ancient eyed –< ?>
