The Searchers
God bless the searchers.
Wandering through this maze.
That we call yesterday and today.
The pollen of living on their battered bee faces.
They flicker into our lives, then back to shadow for a while.
Their sky mirages always brightening our eyes.
Along bent paths they pick up
bushels of pollen and thimbles of poison.
Wings growing weary. legs ever heavier.
They're the purist type of brave.
With bloody bee faces walking straight into
the pugilist of indifference.
I'm envious of them.
God bless the searchers.
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