
The bees move about the flowers and into a nearby hive.
I watch them and I imagine them watching me.
Bee Conversation:
“Is she still sitting there?”
“Yea, she hasn’t moved.”
“Just ignore her and she’ll go away.”

The one that waves from a speeding train?
The one that walks in the drizzling rain?
The one that sits in a darkened room?
The one that speaks to the fullest moon?
The one that weaves a yellow daisy chain?
The one that moves marking lost terrain?
The one that sleeps through raging thunderstorms?
The one that wakes to warn the world of thorns?