Falling Asleep in the Garden All day the bees have come to the garden. They hover, swivel in arcs and, whirling, light On stamens heavy with pollen, probe and revel Inside the yellow and red starbursts of dahlias Or cling to lobelias blue-white mouths Or climb the speckled trumpets of foxgloves. My restless eyes follow their restlessness As they plunge bodily headfirst into treasure, Gold-fevered among these horns of plenty. They circle me, a flowerless patch With nothing to offer in the way of sweetness Or light against the first omens of evening. Some, even now, are dying at the end Of their few weeks, some being born in the dark, Some simply waiting for life, but some are dancing Deep in their hives, telling the hungry The sun will be that way, the garden this far: This is the way to the garden. They hum at my ear. And I wake up, startled, seeing the early Stars beginning to bud in constellations. The bees have gathered somewhere like petals closing For the coming of the cold. The silhouette Of a sphinx moth swerves to drink at a flowerhead. The night-blooming moon opens its pale corolla. - David Wagoner
Posted on: Mon, 04 Nov 2013 18:42:44 +0000
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