by Lynne Hjelmgaard
For Dannie
We, childlike in our trust, cover the grasslands
where we find ourselves
and spread.
Our roots endure, keep each other.
Heartened to fall asleep
to the sound of rain,
we dream of bees, we whisper
deep in summer,
hold close.
We are clusters of tender heads,
fragile with sighs, mishaps, concerns;
rounded tips and lashes,
meadow scent mild and
mothering.
Bees.
Love me, love me not, love me
The bees.
Our honey within, thickening.
Our trefoil leaves calling out:
I’m the one, choose me.