In late July, when
five o'clock is high noon
and the sun on the blacktop
is a sweaty mirage
glimmering off in the vanishing distance,
the honey bee
must be the only one working—
from the shade, I can see her
plumbing and scouring the
depths of a sunflower
tucked between wild dill
tufts on the street corner.
While everywhere about her,
huge titans and terrible monsters
stew in their own torpor,
she spirals ever-closer
to the sweet center
of the gently oscillating flower—
the perfect still point
a swiftly-turning universe—
and there, in the bruised heart
of all delicacy
and nature's fragility unfurled,
and needling her pincers,
assiduously makes the most of our
overused world.
