gratitude

Poetry

Just in time, I did not pour one pail into the other,

noticed the bee paddling below, struggling to hold

her tiny face above the sloshing surface, gasping—

if I could hear sounds that small—for breath, wet

wings stuck to her back, and like a cartoon rewound

the churning water sucked back from the rim

scooped Bee onto my sleeve, breathed warm

air around her, a gentle breeze, a halo of hope.

She lifted one thread-like leg, took a tentative step,

shook a bit like a dog fluffing her coat and

began to explore my cuff. Content,

I carried her to a Bee Balm leaf, returned

my attention to my task until startled

by an insistent humming beside my ear

guiding my eyes, she circled me twice

then flung into flight.

Oh, I will think of her when the wind

blows cold over the meadows encased

in snow, while coating liquid crystals

of gold on toast.