Untitled [Back they sputter]
Back they sputter like the fires of love, the bees to their broken home Which they’re putting together again for dear life, knowing nothing Of the heart beating under their floorboards, besieged here, seeking A life of its own. All day their brisk shadows zigzag and flicker Along a whitewashed gable, trafficking in and out of a hair-crack Under wooden eaves, where they make a life for themselves that knows No let-up through hours of exploration and return, their thighs golden With pollen, their multitudinous eyes stapled to a single purpose: To make winter safe for their likes, stack-packing the queen’s chambers With sweetness. Later, listen: one warm humming note, their night music.
Copyright © 2005 by Eamon Grennan. From The Quick of It. Used with permission of Graywolf Press.