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The Season Of Drunken Bees 
Misty rain, white sky, a scarlet tanager flames through trees.
A rabbit scoots into the underbrush.
Among pink phlox and sweet William,
a yellow flower cradles a bud.
Drunken bees waver and droop
wherever warmth and sweetness linger.
Hurricane air from the Carolinas presses down.
In the pet store, parrots are still, eyes open.
Last night, submerged in doubt, this morning, reverie.
From under the hem of consciousness,
anxiety mutters and clogs my throat.
We are twins, born minutes apart.
When the shadows of oaks spread like this,
I feel a grief beyond all deaths I've known.
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