A Longing
Seek it in ignorance to know the delight in what will be found for desire is a way to remember what it will become. 
Memory is the discarded integument of light.
The Sex Dimension
Just as earthworms create galleries that exploit the inscrutable pores of space, so do moths & dogs, trees & fish, rain & sunlight, even dream & remembrance. Gravity seeps through it & the everlasting can't help but penetrate. Sometimes we mistake it for the swell of dark that worries us; or think its interstices no more than the breath our cells have abandoned.
We will never know it as “naked space” for there is no purity, no absoluteness forced from any burying. Yet as a hole it may trouble us—why are we what it needs to receive? 
In "afterlife" we will learn of the space worms endeavor to create---all incite intercourse, be it the pores matter pregnant, or those the dead make penetrable. It is the influence of the vanished, the absence decay grows; the appetite that excites the worm; the reassuring dark that surrounds our world.
It is the dead wasting into emptiness, the galleries of which space greatly anticipates.
There Is No Metaheat
The compulsive intercourse in Spring follows the increase presence of the sun because Heat is choice habitat of touch. The weather of Love ascending until it reach its replete apogee.
All its receptions well past urging, her creatures learn how to languish & lean into the lazy pleasures that satisfy those now musing upon the urge to die.
Out of the Cradle
On a day of troubled dampness & blunted light, the bud wood seems to brood & throw thin shades of irritability onto the ground.
Out in the wind, bobbing & pleading, these unnursed teats of peachfulness.
But as clouds break herd & begin to graze, the sun will suckle & the bee sniff & remember.
Before Being Wise
Given the persistence of sexual favor, suitable temperatures, & enough sunlight to see by, these sisters, in ample radii from their own locus of increase, will tarry at nearly every floral beckoning & onto willing bloom feed with antherous enthusiasm in the heat of the Sun the ripening hunger that drives all angiosperms to such provocations of abundance that Plenty, by virtue of plant to animal copulation, conceives appetites as can be said of both poet & passionate lover--- they are made more hungry by what feeds them.
Yet true excess of Spring is appetite. I have seen bees so in love with mustard bloom they burn yellow through the wind--- a cloud of powder swirls & falls off into hushed vortices left by the powerful beating of wings. I have seen them so cloy their hind legs with gold fruit and rake & gather from their scented hairs the trappings of male sex & still continue to seek out & copulate with anther & pistil that I, in my private watch, feed with relish upon their entire lack of satisfaction, and cloy my own desires with envy of their ardent coupling. They are ambitious of Love's intensity & increase.
Ofttimes as well, they fill their honey crops to a heavy excess the nectar they return with, whereupon, in the excited heat of the well-guarded hive, vomit among their sisterhood who suck the ejecta back into their crops only to vomit it out again. This collective incantation of feeding & vacuation continues until the nectar thickens with the pleasures of their hunger. It is then voided into comb, where bee secretions cleave nectorius sucrose into burnished sugars that ripen into aromatic splendors sometimes resonating with the odorous sex of a populous flower.
The energetic public life of the hive gains an important balance in the private endeavors of those who gather the fruit of the spring field. Of the many labors performed in the prosperous community of bees, these women will, through the course of their lives, perform nearly all, including on rare occasion, that of the Queen herself. But it is the foraging for fruitfulness, the gathering of pollen to feed brood comb, the engendering of new seed among the flowers of lowland & mountain, the solidarity of sisterhood revealed in the lasting association with Angiosperms--- all this they do in the last days of their lives.
Consider it instruction, nay wisdom as to how we might advance toward death.
As I grow older (now in my middle life) I find my own appetite grows more keen even as the nature of what feeds its has grown more common. I have difficulty in completing my chores, so drawn away by the curious beauty in the small beings about me. Such public life has become the interest of much of my private meditation.
I am often on my knees.
And that is where a conviction gathers in me--- that as I flourish & begin to ripen beneath this generous Sun, these trivial splendors that I find crowding about me, may, by virtue of their own charity, penetrate & incite in me a sense of such deep association that my heart shall need little else to live out it days but a kind of planet adoration--- though this sate no desire but only serve to quicken & increase my hunger.
The intensities of being alive populate our environment & continue to confound us with their living persistence. They seem ceaseless & certainly a good reason for our sustaining appetites. But as future worlds of flower & bee burgeon & grow, we must not, but give up these endowments of Love & sink our selves into dark pools fed by the ineffable pleasures of the nourishing river of death.
Yet along our way, is there not a wisdom to be grazed & fatten even as we feed upon its small & humble offerings?
Why We Copulate
The shadow cast upon this flower is my own.
They make us pause; drop to a knee & lean into their sex of conjuring fragrances. They make us close our eyes, slacken our vigilance, settle the mind of its many differences--- feel about our loins the very desires they dream of freeing in a flurry of pleasuring bees.
We compress, ferment & distill their allure into essences we use to anoint our flesh so we might attract such beauty as engendered there in those petals of heavy scent.
If beauty radiates from the flower because increase lay in potential at its center, than all commingling that enjoys the splendors of creating can acquire what it makes most vivid: Love, which is a universe gathering together such fruitfulness that it becomes the way all flowers thrive.
Copulate and you may acquire their habits of creation.
The Desire to Copulate
The significance to the center of every flower is creation. It is the very face of imagination. Look into it & see the endeavors that exceed an infinite Shakespeare. Will upon the ground planting words for a thousand, thousand years will never grow one single nut, nor see to a marriage of Earth, a rearing of child by the Sun, nor the graces of Rain, the joy of Bees, ecstasies of Native Being beneath a green kingdom of Trees.
Every seed to come is the entire past of all flowering plants who have elected this emphasis upon what it means to be Alive.
An Obligation Upon The Future
This is a bee's thrust into the genitalia of angiosperms. I have generated these images with a hand-held microscope, photographing the very "organs of increase"* captured in the previous 3 posts by a Canon S80, (more blunt of sight but richer of pixel)
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The "insect-sight" shown above, looks down into the floral cup (hypanthium). The uncrowded area features the underlying sepal surrounded by two petals flushed with ardour as they join ends about the pistil & stamens. The focus is below the stigma, showing the rise of filaments out of the deep, heated pink that still beckons, though the anthers are largely spent. The subsequent image places the site of Love's reception (the stigma) in focus. Note the several pearls of pollen--- more than mere promise for they ensphere a potency of sperm.
The yellow lobes of haploid sex have unsealed their moist & sticky beads of pollen. These gametophytes (usually two nuclei of male chromosomes: one to impregnate the ovule, the other to "feed" the plant embryo) are part of the extraordinary pursuit of vascular novelty. The process, called cross-fertilization, eschews clonal increase for the uncertainties of inheritance as a consequence of perfect genetic identity. Remarkable, that even at the primitive level of ancestral information conveyed by sexual fusion, (DNA is a repository of preserved instruction made monumental by a handful of nucleotides pressed into memory) Life does not, & cannot repeat itself. This is one of those axioms of freedom--- "biological" matter being a conspicuous testament to an organic truth.
Vascular freedom, ranging within the random distribution of gametes swept through landscapes of insectual domestication, is constrained by such things as limiting factors, plant anatomy & animal behavior. But one must not underestimate the spontaneity of plant reproduction. Like all genuine freedoms, this "bound liberty" is the nexus of creativity, bold experimentation, & willing adaptation.
Like a variation on the Ensemble Living of Jazz, plant life construes from vascular spontaneity a new emphasis upon the old wisdom.
The peering in upon the site of Ardour below, shows, in focus, the stigma with several grains of pollen-- one of which might be from an old almond tree upon the levy that still has breath & wonder enough to blow its bright horn of blossoms and crowd its hoary limbs with splendid notes of penetration, of reception, of improvisation, and of Love's Increase.
*King Lear: I, iv, ln 270
The Teaching Art
The floral cup opens into pale pink petals that lick the air with scent. They encircle dual genitalia: the stamen which are the quaking filaments capped in gold fertility (anther & its liberties: tiny grains of pollen that will cling to a bee's limbs); and the pistil, held fast to center, oozing & ripe with adhesive sex. At its tip, the stigma waits for the shudder of wings; the heated inspection; the rude forcefulness odorous juices incite; the muscular appetite seeking its animal pleasure, until the expectant companion pull free the beguiling glue & without thought to next year's bloom, leave behind one half of one half the world's school.
The vaginal end of the ovary takes hold of the pollen grain, and thus Sex quickens the dead into what is joined--- endeavoring orders of ancestral importance pursuing purpose, instruction, speculation & improvement in the newly formed embryo of the old.
All blooms are wanton; welcome is the pollen tube & its twin sperms cells that swell, descend & gain access to the egg of union. By force of insight & endless novelty of an entire universe, every seed seals away a new life quickening in anticipation of its own mansion of earth.
Compelled by mutual persuasion of plant & animal increase, incited by a compenetrant soil, and graced by the complicity of ocean currents that bloat the belly of heaven with a water to make the world green, all that we create in life begins with these bold evocations of the Sun.
Cover Crop
Each autumn I "drill" seed. Drill is an unkind word, but it is the word of choice among the agricoles of our time. Agricole has long been free of fashion. I know of it only because I "read" the dictionary. That's right, I spend evenings rooting through "E" or "B" or "XYZ". In fact often when I turn to a dictionary to confirm the stake & survey of a word (that is, is it proper?) I find myself plunging beyond the well fenced field to wander the wilds of a vast, luxuriant wordscape expectant of novel visitation.
The coherence of a dictionary is like benthic geology or the look-back time of astronomy--it can reveal through preservation of the Fuse, the strife & intentions, the thriving & frustrations of growth & ruin. A certain permanence sifting with the influence of both the dead & the living.
So it is with seed. The stuff of past efforts are its soil, and the urge of creation stirred by the earth's drift through the sun's insistence to instruct by forebear to individual,
its Code. For the dead, they teem the elements of the spontaneous, such as liberty, ecstasy, radiance, excessive beauty, or those other parings of extreme energies that drive generation. Their labors give fury to the immense organs of increase that conceive & make thrive, this agricole's Rind. 
S o let us make like a seed. Unbutton the coat and open the integuments of ovule. Let turn the innocent radicle to root in the dissolved pleasures of our ancestors. Take aim & create.
And Love be a force of the fruitful.
