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.