The Bee

Submitted by Tim Hawes on Sun, 2009-06-28 20:15

 92-034 1-29-92

THE BEE

Time backs up in its corner
Like dust, and I sit looking out
The cobwebbed window at the rusted
Wrought-iron fence with its gate askew.
I wait for long periods
And no one comes. I count
The hours without inspiration

Which is not to say that I exist
Without my work and taking care
Of countless obligations, but I must,
Being made peculiarly, make sense
Of each passing act, capturing it
In verse. I must not let pass
A single moment that might illuminate

This singular porch like a triptych
Inflamed with yellow ocher and burnt sienna.
I can't know how all of this turns out
Or whether you'll read it and see,
But I shall continue my search,
A bemused bee having found the hive,
Spending his day out finding flowers.