old words

July 24, 2014

for the love of outdoors

A poem born of the summer. And I did spend time with a honey bee or two, coaxing them out of my bouquet and listening to the tunes they hum. 


The honey bee
and I
exchanged pleasantries
over a bouquet so new
he thought the blooms were still rooted.
I explained his mistake in whispers
and the rearranging of a coneflower
he had taken a liking to.
We talked about blackberries
and then the coolness
so rare in the summer tilt
of the Northern hemisphere.
He and I agreed
that the day’s clouds
would make exceptional
window-dressers since their
imaginations and mutations
were fanciful,
but elegant.

I mentioned I had seen
a butterfly
and he begged a detailed description.
“She landed on a coneflower
just near me, beside the one
I was about to pick.
Iridescent browns, orange stripes,
two blue puddles,
and a small bit missing
on the right wing.”
I never knew why he asked,
for he flew off
and I took the bouquet inside,
glad to have made the time
to exchange pleasantries

with the world on the other side
of doors.

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