The Navajo have that wonderful image of what they call the pollen path. The Navajo say, 'Oh, beauty before me, beauty behind me, beauty to the right of me, beauty to the left of me, beauty above me, beauty below me, I'm on the pollen path.'
Bees do have a smell, you know, and if they don't they should, for their feet are dusted with spices from a million flowers.
Have you seen the roses? There's a whole lot of colours.
Until it seems the whole city will be covered with gold pollen shaken from the bell-towers, lilies plundered with the weight of massive bees . . .
In spring they lie flat at the first warmth, they ruin my summer and in autumn they smell of women.
Books are the bees which carry the quickening pollen from one to another mind.
Outside, the September air was enticingly fragrant, yellow with pollen and rich, lemony sunlight.
The flower is a jumble of thighs, the sun's harem - the most oriental thing imaginable.
I avoid the carwash when I think it might rain anytime in the near future, which means I drive around the majority of the time in a pollen and bird poop covered car. This presents a stand off between Neat Freakshow and Practical Pennypincher, and Neat Freak usually triumphs. And then it rains.
Gradually the magic of the island [Corfu] settled over us as gently and clingingly as pollen.
I have allergies, and I've had my share of nosebleeds, but that's usually related to pollen.
Sometimes I think of myself as a little bee. I go from one area of the studio to another and gather pollen and sort of stimulate everybody. I guess that’s the job I do.
