What Language
       

The murmuring of bees long absent,
is replaced by rasping of wasps sniffing
loosestrifes. A sedge wren on the tips
of reeds, opens her beak, sings
a choir along the mud road alone.

What sound, what language can I use
to find you? Tens of thousands of words in
the dictionary scant—word love
is fluid—amassing river's time
secretly under our knowing.

Milky way fades in
the white noise of cities' lights—
the way I lost you.
You sense it, my body knows it.

Even without words, uphill is
yucca's story—the plant & the moth,
perfectly timed pollination and seeds,
survive together—tacitly.

At least I can learn the wren's
song, she sings back to me.

But I'm still waiting for the bees'
humming—their stoical, ardent living
unwittingly making the world bloom.

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