Poem After Unsung Song
after Viviane Houle
Baby follows the bees, those rapscallion
wanderers, echoers of vibration
and purveyors of stings—that bite
she knows nothing of, her scant
eight months, nor honey yet because
renegade spores can wreck
her system. Still she notices bee spirals,
shifts on her seat to see them
alight to a daisy—yellow landing pad
gummy with pollen—then off,
both baby and bees choosing a hard turn,
criss to cross, zig, meander.
If you listen to the air, wait in the beat
between wings and steps,
you can hear sprouting. Cells near-now,
just-about: their unfurling.