|the last of the hellebores|
In this vein I love the poem by Peter Didsbury called
Became at last a bee.
I took myself naked to town,
with plastic sacks of yellow turmeric
taped to my wizened thighs.
I'd been buying it for weeks,
along with foods I no longer had a need for,
in small amounts from every corner grocer,
so as not to arouse their suspicion.
It was hard, running and buzzing,
doing the bee-dance. I ached
at the roots of my wings, and hardly yet discerned
that I flew towards reparation,
that in my beehood my healing had been commenced.
Words they use in this hive. To me it seems still
that clumps of tall blue flowers,
which smiled as they encroached,
had been born of my apian will,
in which to my shame I struggled for a moment,
and stained the air with clouds of my dearly bought gold.
|Here's looking at you kid|
|view out the back|
|the magnolia is in bud now|