I came to a field of flowers, seeking nourishment, like a bee. Those we love never seem to know how much we love— The bee hovers over the bee balm the way I listen to Einaudi, the way I crave you. The tree offers shade with roots deep as mother’s love. The tree shades us, her leaves, a manufacturing plant for chlorophyll but even they, powerless without the deep work of the roots. The roots never upstage the leaves, nor even the branches. More so, like the unsung toil of rootball, or heart’s muscle, so much of the work of love is hidden.