Among Carptenter Bees

Among Carptenter Bees

You don’t sting me, I don’t kill you.
We make a pact, and suddenly
this buzzing around my head

sounds like rain in the trees,
spring creeks running fast,
the muffled hum of secret sex,

or those born-agains over the hill,
sawing boards, adding rooms
onto their coffin, busy little bees.

In my garden, morning glory
mingles in with poison ivy,
thistle, dog dung, hints of rot.

My cat enjoys a wren for lunch,
and I’m done with swatting things,
calling this a flower, that a weed,

culling out the right from wrong,
till there’s no voice left in me to sing,
nor songs to Thee more to be sung.


©James L. Ralston


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