Swinging in the hammock, we watch the jacaranda blossom petals
drift along the wind.
The rows of tulips sway with some ready to bid adieu.
The flowers are early, guests eager to begin the festivities of spring.
Mama whispers, “The bees are not ready.”
I nod and close my eyes to recall the last few days.
Panic rises in my ten-year-old chest.
I turn towards mama, lips a breath from her arm. “Where are the bees?”
Mama sighs. “No se mi amor.”
Biting my lower lip, I knew this could spell disaster.
Mama was the goddess of nuestra hacienda.
Her hands have sifted the soils of our home for decades.
Sweet dragon fruits.
Tangy tomatillos.
Juicy mangos.
Radiant sunflowers
Bright marigolds.
But these treasures may not return.
I must sound the alarm.
But how?
The bees must know the flores will not wait. A late arrival to the spring dance will mean death for everyone.
In time.
All.
I need a plan.
I blink.
The steps bloom in my mind.
I have a plan.
Ahorita.

Invitations to Spring Court