Old Woman’s Aria
What a boon, what a boon, what a boon!
to live in an empty honey crock tucked into
the long brown bones of a hedge.
O bee hieroglyphics!
O nectar and reverie!
O to row out in half a walnut,
to meet this drowned world,
with its blessings of barter and trade,
its mud that spits out stones for ballast
and jars, those glass beatitudes,
that rise up singing out of the muck,
jars, clear and intact, no matter to me
how small they be, or what they held once,
jars I catch the rain in, the best ones
begging to be filled with potables,
to be sealed with caps I make
out of crayons and candle scraps.
O to be washed sweet again by the rain,
to savor the taste of a memory, though
the poor bees, themselves, are gone!