The bee needs the flower,
the flower needs the bee.
Sometimes a child just needs his mother to hold him.
Sometimes a mother just needs to hold her child.
Sometimes we need to be held.
Sometimes God needs to hold us.
The pleading is quiet, but deeper than time—
the ache, the space in her open arms.
The fragrance of the flower,
the restlessness within, God’s longing.
What a gift, that the flower opens and waits,
the child rests in the mother’s arms.