I see a bumblebee
around the house,
from room to room,
From flower to flower,
for something it cannot find,
some way out, or failing that,
some food, some pollen,
To survive, until a door
or a window, for escape.
The flowers we’ve gathered,
a different sort for each room,
Do not give the bee what it wants,
fading, losing their petals,
losing even the sweet smell
they promised of spring.
The tulips in the kitchen,
from the garden, already
show some roughness around
the edges. The lilacs in the sun porch,
Cut yesterday, have lost their luster,
The carnations in the livingroom,
on the coffee table, are more black
than red, and should be tossed.
The chrysanthemums in the diningroom,
in the middle of the round table,
look to be holding their own,
a brilliant yellow-gold color,
With dark green leaves interspersed.
around the mums, and over them,
the unhappy bee does not seem to think
there’s anything worth stopping for.
More and more slowly it flies,
itself down. If I cannot capture it,
it will settle somewhere and die.