It is mid-June, and the bees in the spirea—
catching light like snow—are barely audible
in the great, bent branches. A shell can
speak of the sea. The hill we are perched on
speaks of the valley inverted. A peach pit
is not a precious object. Yet it sits
in the eater’s hand, as damp and wizened
as a newborn child. The bees stay in motion.
They will move on next to the trellised vine
whose scarlet blossoms are about to open.
They will be slender with a frill of lighter gold.
The woody stems will dig in with a firm hold.
We, in this strange moment in spring, twenty
years into the millennium, have dug in too,
speaking our fears as we go about our lives.
The lilacs have passed; the spirea thrives.
