Few things do I find
more peaceful 
than the golden hours
I make and spend 
with non-people
in those euphoric moments
I string together
between the shadows, 
sitting among the bees
in neither garden
nor bramble,
a weedy yard 
as proxy for the meadow
I have yet to discover
as my special 
place to feel 
home. 

In the meantime, 
longer still, 
will I spend 
unweaving the web
to the portal. 

I watch in comforting
company each
peculiar movement
of a single honey bee
again in the perfect
light, so celestial. 

I bet he’s seen
my meadow. 

I strain to hear
the whispers, 
the clues, 
as I always do,
and add them to
my map
home. 

I take into my essence
the message 
of a single bee
teetering
on the webbed edge
of the dark and deep, 
and I remember, 
too late or in perfect timing, 
that I also have and always have had
wings. 

Perhaps this whole map thing
is what deceives, 
keeps us stagnant 
with the planning
when we simply
need to faithfully begin
the journey, 
all of it too fleeting
to waste another moment
not believing
we can achieve
right now
our dreams. 

We are never truly defeated, 
jilted, ill-fated, 
except by ourselves
when we lie down
too long 
where we don’t belong,
succumbing to the sunset song of the poppies
when the field of sunny, new-day daisies
is just up ahead. 

I never heard a buzz from that bee. 
Funny how later and always, I will remember
the way it pollinated
these dreams. 

Poem and image ©LauraDenise