Honeybees and Birds
“My heart is like a singing bird.” –Christina Rossetti
Summer stood still as the moon peeped over the roses.
You heard whispers from the fireflies dotting the night.
Scenes of past bedlam glimped* along the footpath.
Never quite able to say no to clever pastures.
A tree offered its shadow to the reckless wind.
You heard secrets that honeybees cannot keep.
And then night offered cover from the pounding sun.
You fumbled and stumbled into bed dead tired.
Morning shook you awake and you tumbled out
From your restless sleep squinting at the clock.
Another day to stand staring at the yard
With its bed of grass and bird paraphernalia.
You will keep on questioning how it all began
Anticipating the day that brings the answer.
*glimped: a term I coined. It is the conflation of “glimpsed” and “limped”; thus it conjures the image of someone or something glimpsing while limping
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