A Man Who Sings To Bees
I heard a sound
lilting like reed pipes
wending through air
grown heavy in dusklight
sultry and organic
rising from behind
a pasture heavy with
coarse hairs and droppings
horses and their liquid eyes
shedding winter coats
(and masticated oats)
even they know
they're only scenery
with withers to the wood line
as a shadow rocks
hypnotic rhythm timed
to cicadas and honeybees
a man
a man who sings to bees?
rushing to challenge
a stranger in the yard I find
him hatless in the swirling
humming to himself
to the hive
to the dusk
to his dark leather shoes
turned just slightly away
profiled yet indistinct
wordlessly he sings
to wounded hearts
wistful hopes
futures lost
and silently I lie down beside
wild onion, cooling grass
listening to the rhythm
deeply thrumming on the comb
modulated voice, concert of a soul
ort of treble, rumbled bass
and opening my eyes I see
no man
no music
only bees
and me.
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