Wednesday, July 22, 2020


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,

spitting and sucking 
and needling her pincers, 
assiduously makes the most of our 
overused world.