Safe

I like to think of them

finishing up their shift,

punching out of whatever clock

the sun keeps in the sky,

maybe gossiping a little

about the new patch of clover

down by the fence post.

Then, without ceremony,

they curl themselves into the purple

like a guest slipping under

a heavy quilt in an unfamiliar house,

the air full of quiet

and whatever dream bees dream.

Meanwhile, I’m here at the window,

pretending to work,

watching the day close shop—

and the bees are safe sleeping in the thistle.

Peaks Island, Maine

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