When I see a bee, I lose myself in its golden light

the same way the stay-at-home shaman is held in a kind of trance

by the slow dance of honey drizzling down onto a slice of toast.

I’m a dream of a bee in the hive.

Which is where I spend the cold nights telling myself

most people open to the sun like flowers,

not buzz from flower to flower like bees.

Confusing a sense of duty for love

I think I’m a beauty forbidden from myself

and that this is what being selfless means.

But that’s how I know I could also be the flower opening up to the bee

from out of a field of emerald green,

and that, in fact, I am the golden flower in love with the golden bee,

that like most people, I’m happy,

but just have to look back at where I was and see

an angel floating down and hovering above me in order to see that.