Opening

author’s note:

I thought one "bee" poem should be followed by another (see last post).

“How slowly we flash up in clarity!”
                     --  Nelly Sachs

OPENING

Their whirring wings
I could barely hear
and so,
could hardly bear

but by listening
I could feel
the winter bees
building back--

that’s how
I made connection
in a broken shelter
that worked like a trap--

that’s how
I found a door,
a loving door--though dark--

past which, I discovered
another door--a massive door--
a door of ancient ores--

that I can not open…

yet--I’m told:
some feasting must wait

because I need
to curl on the floor
against a tree, a tree
of strong soft bark,
strong soft hands--

wait, because I need
to sit at the threshold
and decipher river sounds
echoing from the cave below.

The earth is much too rich
at such times.  Yet I’m impatient--
how long must I wait?  Impatient,
though I know completion
will be bittersweet:
when I must rise, when I lift--

the way a butterfly
seems to wobble
as it brings in
the breeze--

when I move
to the door
the blank door--
the door of ores reclaimed--
with splinters of light
bursting from its seams.

© 2010, Michael R. Patton

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