STAGGERING BEES
Flowers abandoned at the burial site.
The black car doors slam shut.
Guests shed their coats and express
sympathy, unforgiving of mortality.
Platters of cold cuts,
homemade salads, store-bought buns
and boxed desserts—but I do not
want them.
Women bring more food: a bowl of olives,
cheese and crackers, Jell-O with whipped cream topping.
Someone places her hand on my shoulder,
says: be sure to get yourself
a plate, dear. I turn away,
look out the window, and cross
my arms against the world.
It guides me toward the blooming lilacs
and staggering bees,
to the laughing voices of children
playing on the swing set
under the backdrop of clouds and sunbreaks.
All this.
Yet none of it.
HONORING MEADOWBROOK
for Cora
Up against the wetland forest
where bands of light fuse with frosty grass,
the bull’s crown of points cuts the sky
like a lapidary cuts stone.
A day of firsts and lasts—
my daughter, new to this small town,
is surprised the herd is here midmorning.
She says she comes at sunrise or dusk.
This birthplace of the Snoqualmie Tribe.
This Hyas Kloshe Ilahee,
their “great good land.”
Close enough, his exhalation spills
into visible air, others lay their bodies
of thick smooth fur into the earth,
and some insist on fattening up
for the harsh winter ahead.
No haunting bugle, no ritualized rut,
just benevolent existence—
this first witnessing together
of what is precise and holy.
What cannot last
is still a blessing.
The minute we drive away
we make room for this
new song in our hearts.
