The author’s Jacaranda in back yard
There are blue-banded bees in the bonnet
of our jacaranda tree in full bloom,
and fragrant rhododendrons lift my gloom.
I stand there a moment and think upon it,
the moment’s grace, and far off beating drums
tell of the gathering thunderbolt clouds
that overshadow the blue hills, like shrouds,
and pass as ghosts into the windblown gums.
I think of colony collapse, and mad
honey purloined from Black Sea bees that feed
visions of Sufi dervishes, and lead
to letting go of what was never had.
Beneath the bonnet of the tree, blue bees
linger in the fragrantissimum breeze.