Wade Tregaskis, "Honeybee in a Trombetta Squash flower," 2015
Buttercup, let’s talk. In your saffron-robed wisdom, you understand the way we apes pile on the meaning. One end of the spectrum: Giotto painting old Judas Iscariot in a yellow cloak (not golden nor sunlit, but piss-colored, draped in fear-stain shame). At another end: Van Gogh’s butter-colored rent house, his sunflowers, all purest joy. And that’s just the West. East, past Jerusalem, even past Mecca, further than Bodhidharma wandered, near the Yellow River, sits the Yellow Emperor, resplendent. One might even enter Yellow Springs, converse with all those dead sitting there in the jaundiced light of an everlasting eclipse of the sun, weak illumination a sulfured glaze on on their desiccated fingers, their game boards and tiles. Or not. The bees don’t care, long as their dead reckoning dance leads them to your honeyed bulls-eye, Buttercup.