The Weight of Bees

azalea blooms
wincing under the weight
of bees

Temperatures remain too cold for the opening of tulips. All this beauty at the ready.

freezing fingers
digging a little further
into my pockets

Friday night, alone for once. I'm lost in vodka and the epistolary relationship between Robert Duncan and Denise Levertov. Celeste croons in her whiskey-whisper voice about the strangeness of people changing from stranger to friends, friends to lovers, and lovers to strangers again. Like spring wind to the ear, I hear the psalm my own way. Daisies will rise again, unpicked, after summer's supple rain. “I tend my flowers for thee – Bright Absentee!”

The hyacinth finishes as hostas reach hungry hands towards heaven. Days begin to take on the feeling of a life well-lived. Past and passing. I sit with the poems at my dimly lit desk while the rest of the world sleeps. That fucking river....the one we all become on the way to the sea.

love letters finished
just before dawn opens
her robe

Mutable language, which is to say, language, plagues me. It's time to evaluate actions. Don't tell me you love me or the earth or God. Show me.