Sonnet 81

Wednesday, April 26, 2017

Pendulous blooms, & crepuscular;
for the hour, it verges on nighttime.
The garden lurks among copses
and benches stuck under fountains…
Oh, mid-evening rhapsodic serenade,
sung to a bee by an unconscious maid!
When what is is becoming what was
and song sounds a little like buzz.
“Is she dead or playing possum?”
“To a bee, everything’s blossom.”

• • •
 

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