THE LAUGH OF THE BEES

Swarming in with poisoned tips tucked
under innocence,
Nature’s vengeance dancing from
flower to flower,

no matter the color,
or the size,
or shape.

They are the thieves of each unique
fragrance,
and I wonder,

Do they watch for the tulip to open toward the warmth of the sun?
Do they wait for a rose to display her heart proudly?
Do they time each moment precisely
for attack?

The light of the sun is unconditional;
food for the flowers,
heat for the thieves,

and on those magical days,
when I am the Bells of Ireland,
exposed,
hungry for the warmth of my Sun,

they swarm in and attack!

 

Tree Legs

I have peculiar bark on my long tree legs,
it grows in layers.

When I was eight, I was a fresh baked apple pie.
My mother never told me why, but I know
it was because of the tears.

My tree legs drank them every day,
while mother explored my cold sweats.
She picked them off my forehead with
smiling fingertips. Eager for discovery!

She poked through my warm crust, straight to my soft apples,
spoiling my fruit,
rotting them with her murky breath.
I was an apple pie

until the world never died.
I realized, at that precise moment,
that I was a foul smell;
putrid. I had dried up and crumbled.

There was nothing left for me but
these long, strong tree legs….

and bark.

Overlay

The woman with the old walls
painted new walls in her
home

Burnt red was smothered with
pale yellow,
a non-fattening banana
ice cream
wall.

She covered up the old walls
often, burying
old lovers
and gross mistakes. She could
scrub the greasy
instances
but  her eyes will not pick
out the dirty spots
without
a finger,
that is not her own,
pointing out
the
places that pollute
the walls.

Even if her eyes could show her,
her elbows do not have
strength enough
to scrub
scrub
scrub
the past away.