The bumblebee
This morning, before starting my day, I take a stroll through my garden.
I breathe in the scent of the fresh air. I admire the flowers as they open their petals to the gentle warmth of the rising day.
A magnificent bumblebee is resting on a pink petal, broad and soft to the touch. What a lovely bed for a prince of nature.
He does not move. I approach very slowly so as not to frighten him.
I bend down towards him with the utmost gentleness, hoping to examine him closely and admire his fur, the delicate veil of his wings, and the mirrors of his eyes.
When my finger brushes against one of his wings, the prince looks at me, pleading for mercy. His beautiful eyes do not shine.
Was he too cold during the night? Is he spending his final hours before crossing over to the other shore of life?
It is mid-autumn, and the first cold nights are settling in. My prince cannot withstand them.
I speak to him and explain that he has nothing to fear from me. I promise to take the best possible care of him and help him regain his strength.
I gently pick him up, taking care not to hurt him.
I must humbly admit that I am afraid of being stung.
Happy to reach the warmth of my home, I place the bumblebee on a leaf of one of my houseplants.
One of those succulents that thrive with infrequent watering and bloom in every shade, in every season.
In the early evening, the gentle warmth of the wood-burning stove begins to work its magic on the bumblebee. His eyes open more and more often. He stretches his legs and tests the strength of his wings.
After a few hours of sleep, my prince, who had been at death’s door, flies joyfully ar
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