The Give-Away

The frenzied motion of the swarm

Has been stilled.

Bees, huddle in layers, sloughing off as the living bundle freezes from outside in.

Icicles, and the slow rise of melted fluid on my roof,

The drop that succumbs, finally releasing its grip on its former life.

Does it feel like a death, this falling?

Does matter delude itself into thinking it has dreams? Do I?

I know that a corral has no roof.

And  even in the snow, there is an ultra violet compass that points  home.

Are my cold hands nimble enough to open the latch on the gate?

5 thoughts on “The Give-Away

  1. I have been writing interesting and beautiful poetry. There are artists who try their best to paint images that are more perfect than real life. There are artists who paint what they experience real and raw. You told me that you paint your plants in the wild. I admire that. I write poetry that I do not post that is raw and real. I am struggling with exposing that side of the world I see and that part of me…to be true, to flicker light and dark makes the flame captivating. I suppose it is the struggle of all artists. Am I running away from the corral that I have built? I don’t know. Long answer…thank you for asking.

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