Everyday magic is upon us now.
A simple chair by a simple bush,
soaking in a cacophony of pollen rapture.
A common hedge of blooming laurel
turns into whizzing contrails of sensual vibration.
The bee’s song translated in the earth’s tongue
as one great tuning fork.
A rising swell so insistent
that its passionate quivering
physically presses against my skin,
persuades me against my distractions
to look up and find
bumble bee, honey bee, mason bee, sweat bee
all in agreement,
their electrical pulse a cry of aliveness.
They remind me that the world is full of signals
we can’t hear, we don’t perceive,
oblivious to the vast vibrational matrix
that the rest of the living world shares.
What a myoptic lot we are.
An urgency is upon them,
some internal clock ticking down
the brevity of their mission.
Rear saddlebags overflowing with yellow,
I can’t imagine that they will not keep this
And where will all of their little bodies go?
Why do we not spot them among the dead leaves and tree debris?
Where do they hide in their final resting place,
humble dried husks, orange and black?
All duty finally done,
resting their purring wings at last.