The dry mercy of the wind
along the dim arc of my arm, down the long
perimeter of my leg to cling to my leather
sandal. Blissdrunk on sunhoney, I’ve seen
this before. Its gathering days have ended.
It throws itself on the dry mercy of the wind
allowing it to steer its fate, some collapsing
stamen to lean against, some wither of underleaf
to lay down the weight of a waiting hive, some
deep crevice to curl in among the warm red brick.
So small a thing the night will not notice.
Owls begin patrol, choirs of coyote call out
across the shallow canyons, the crisp chitter
of thrashers and mockingbirds settle the juniper
as stars undouse their lanterns. The bee is lost
to all of this as I am lost to the bee. We hold one
another for the minutes it takes to make a poem
or still a wing, brace for the coming cold and the
long eternal night, the business of this world now
of little concern in our unfolding continuance.
March 27, 2014