A Great Whirring

A bird's cry cracks    open the day
My neighbor lifts    a basket of laundry
drapes a white blouse    I envy the way it hangs
empty    untethered    My father
once took me to a bee farm    pointing out clover
wheat straw    tarpaper rooflines    bees
body to body    a great whirring
combing the wet cells    Now he forgets
names    calls this morning to say he can't see
the finches at the feeder    nothing
but a faint rustling    watery daubs
of black and gold    All day    I think of him
the hovering birds    breaking seeds    unseen
feeding    the bees knotted together    soft thorax
and stinger    How quickly
things darken this heat    Shadows
split the maple    Kneeling on the lawn
I deadhead roses    With a penknife
cut raw white pulp    sun on the sound
of leaves    rustling brief need
which could be the wind    or his voice
as it passes    headed nowhere    gaining speed

Copyright © 2009 Bruce Snider All rights reserved
from Ninth Letter
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission