At summer’s end, at perfect time,
Hosta shoots reach up high;
As the purple cups, hanging down,
Beckon those flying by.
With whirring wings and slender beak,
Colors catching the sun,
Humming birds feast as they hover,
Always amazing one.
Yet on this day, the lumbering
Of those inside the cup,
Fumbling, tumbling, the bumblebees
Rouse this watching one up.
For while drinking drops of nectar
Prepared in flower’d jar,
The bees, unknowingly, bear gold,
Life that’s spread near and far.
So too we receive His blessings
Not seeing as we taste,
Others touched as we’re becoming
The vessels of His grace.