Bees no longer call as often as they used to.
Pausing in my garden I once knew swift winged
hums brushing the air, a peaceful path of earth
alive with bantam workers.
Ladies in painted scarves of apricot and ebony,
proboscis partaking in summer vintage
tarry less than seasons past.
Uninvited tankards of elixir spread promises
of verdant carefree grass, a vow never pledged
in this thirsty acreage. Bluegrass brought from rain
nourished country labors to survive,
cruel work for a foreign hostage.
our native ground
eyelash grass and silver beard
whirling, bending in the current
little golden zinnia, buffalo berry
milkweed for the ladies
beebalm for the bees
purple prairie clover
firewheel and flax
mexican hat shade
for hearty celebration
pink mimosa, a Sunday brunch
evening primrose beckons sleep.
Pines and spruce
cottonwoods and poplars
quaking aspen raise us
upward to the sky.
All have been given, placed
with loving hands
to feed and nourish,
Not using the prompt today. Spring fever.