A soft bee’s window knock reminds
of its existence. How the bee made such
an error does confound, Bee must be blind
to filthy glory that sticks to touch.
If I were Bee, I’d wonder if there really
were a window in this whole abode,
this house that stings the eyes. It wears a dirty
cloak and mossy hat, but used to glow.
It sits in silence, anticipating
a time when caring hands and heart retreat
from absent aimless wandering
to lovingly sanitize its homely peat.
If I’m to live here, the clean I shall invoke
Before I’m swallowed by the dirty cloak.
