I watch the bees slow down the summer
I watch the bees slow down the summer. Honeysuckle sink beneath their substance. Sunlit busbies stuffed with sleep and ochre powder making journeys, wavery, vague, full of just-remembered purpose, so I come to think of aged gardeners, with their pots and hats and secret pockets full of dust, casting stuff on yellow air so seconds stretch (a whole long summer each, if we could only enter them) a gift of sorts, for us, a hunch, as if they’ve guessed, the bees, and understood the rock at the garden’s end, the crouching sky, the path on its narrow belly, dropping to the sea.
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