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.