THE BEE IS DRUNK

The bee is drunk;

he gorges himself on the pollen-spattered flowers. I watch his boozy progress from blossom to blossom. He feeds, rolls over, drops, and feeds again. A lush, kissing all the girls. Mmmmm, he says. Mmmmm.

I am dizzy with green sweetness and sun, the scent of  wild roses. Light touches their innocent faces. The sky peers between limbs and leaves to witness such tenderness.

                           

The twisted bittersweet vine has lost its malice, softened into rare sculpture by the flood of stirring leaves. Small flying insects: ectoplasm on the wing. Above the stream bed, a cloud of blithe gnats circles a rhododendron branch.

                                

Remember this:

Remember the thorny bow of the blackberry vine, its pink buds and moon-white blossoms.

 Remember the cool of the shaded path, the promise of arrival.


copyright cathy larson sky May 30, 2013