, , , ,

The poet sat at his desk and stared

blindly at the wall ahead.
Its lost, lost, lost, he thought.
Helplessly he turned to look
at the garden without
and saw the summer in its
angry yellow garb, the anxious xenias
nodding hesitantly beside
the short green hedge and balsam
blossoms shrinking
in their dazed shimmering beds.

A lone honey bee shimmied up to
him and whispered,
“I am lost, but I cannot stop,
if I do I will die. I must, I must
go on flying.”
The poet sighed.
Then he saw a shadow
of a thought
a vague outline that looked like a theme.

His finger reached up and traced the outline,
the thought grew clearer,
his fingers trembled:
would it ultimately be his?
or would it slip away like all the others?

The next day when the honey bee shimmied in
among the bold xenias and the plucky balsams,
he found the poet asleep in his chair
and sheets of words dancing in the
warm summer air.