I’m looking at a bee

dance slowly to its compass

through the thrust-out leaves

of cherry trees that drop

pink double blossoms

on a dusty asphalt drive.

Patched fellow, he’s not

looking at me. Diverging, all

furred purpose, see him bumble

to the next browned bloom,

mapping the day’s descent from

branch to flowering shrub

to plump red tulip lips

that pucker up below. Comes now the

falling time we thoughtlessly

call spring, when petals open

then proceed to dessicate

and die. When pollen folk

make haste to seize the last

sweet drip or crumb, alive

to ticking landscapes,

to accelerating sun. I’m looking

at a me who’s disregarded by

a bee. Whose eye sees less

acutely, seeking out a

hive. Who lacks the surefoot

yellow of this insect

on a vine; yet still may laud

what saves our seasons

from degrading into shards

.