Bees

 

It's not the honey; it's the dimness

Or maybe my taste in home accoutrement,

My desire to put a bandage

over a scar that is being carved

by my other hand.

Either way, the bees come home

to the weave, sometimes brushing a wrist

or using all six legs 

to rub my shoulders;

They could teach me a dance--

the entrance to fairyland

is a hot shimmer

in a field of  blank green.

They want me to dance

into their feast like a queen

whose wings have long 

been abandoned.

This last fillip of winter has put the bees mostly on hold for now -- it hasn't stopped the wasps poking around the bird-dispensing patio cover and seeing how low they can drift before we start to move. Wasp chicken is a Texas summer activity. This week is theoretically Shot Week...which I'm not going to think about right now or in the context of wasps and bees. bzzzzzzzz....

-- Chrissa