Tuesday, April 15, 2008

Some peaceful bee in my wakeful brain

The carpenter bee, which I know from my Takoma Park childhood, does not, generally, sting. The males cannot; the females can but tend not to.


I choose
to see the peace
in the bee.

I want to cup him
just a moment
in the clamshell of my two hands,
feel the quiver of his hover
whir through me,

make me a worker. I do not believe
in his sting.
I have seen him and his crew
as they swirl through the shrubs
in search of the random
January rose.

I have seen him
burrow his home into the porch rail,
smelled the sweet wood
of his leaving.

I would ride
in his wandering wake
if I could, brush the hint of my danger
against bare legs
if I could,
but never swap my life
for the power to close
an enemy’s

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