An exercise calling for a poem starting with a metaphor went nowhere until I spent a morning in my garden and returned with a poem once again connecting bees with Darren. I still don’t entirely know what that’s about, but it did help me find my metaphor. The title? I just couldn’t resist.
The Birds and the Bees
At this place in my life, love is the bee blundering though my ginger flowers:
In some other meadow there are 27 million fading blooms, and a descending
Arc of days in which to chose among them. But in this garden there are only
Seven flowers in bloom, the scent of spice so rich in the air that it’s like
Dessert on my tongue. I look up from my book and the bee is still there,
Fuzzy, fat, and contented, perched on his chosen flower’s fluted lip with
The delicate balance of desire.
You’re in the kitchen window watching me — I don’t think you can see
The bee — as a redwing’s conk-a-ree shatters my thoughts
Of a poem, turns them to the prose of starting dinner. Six months from now
I’ll come out as your wife and dig ginger to grate over chicken in a handmade
Casserole dish that’s been around the world on its blackbird wings, the feathers
Etched in its lid fading from years of ovens it’s borne with dignity befitting
Those red and yellow epaulettes.