JANUARY

THE BEE’S LAST JOURNEY TO THE ROSE

I came first through the warm grass
Humming with Spring,
And swim now
Through the evening’s soft sunlight gone cold.
I am old in this green ocean,
Going a final time to the rose.
North Wind, until I reach it
Keep your icy breath away
That changes pollen into dust.
Let me be drunk on this scent a final time,
Then blow if you must.
bp