Sunday, February 1, 2009

The Wind, the Raven and the Bees

When I was a child I listened to the wind
I knew his language and never questioned his requests
In Autumn when the summer came to it's end
as the sun came down in low in the sky
we would dance with the tall grass
running and jumping without a care
singing songs of the harvest and down filled nights to come
when jack o'lanterns roamed the night
to keep me safe and sound
In December when goose was eaten and cobwebs abound
he would come into my room
dressed in flapping gossamer drapes
to tease me with the cold
and tell me stories of Spring
when he would engage the last of the snowflakes to dance
like so many old-maids at the Mardi Gras ball
In the cool of the Spring night
he'd call me, whispering through the window cracks
I would wait for him out past dusk and lay beside in my willow tree
he'd tousle my hair and make me twirl, spinning me around like a leaf
or sing me songs that frightened me
but I stayed in his arms
because I knew we were as kin
the wind and I
When I was a child I talked with the honeybees
I was their charge
a flower that smiled and laughed
without fear and without care
the bees and I, we understood
things about unquestioned love,
and blessings delivered in the colors of yellow and black
they swarmed me with it
honey scented and full of grace
as if I were an apple tree, bloated with blossoms
When I was a child I spoke to the raven
the raven listened and spoke words of woe, but didn't stay long
I longed for his company, but knew that desire was like a dark blue fruit
to know the secrets that the raven kept
to taste was to know and to know was too soon
for such a child as I
so I sat waiting under the honeysuckle, waiting for the bees
to sail upon our friend the wind
to bless me yet again
I saw the raven again one day
I, this time as a man
he saw me but did not stop to talk
for I was walking in the city of the dead
"Today the bone-yard yields no fascination" I thought
for those with iridescent wings
but as I passed a centuries old tomb
there was a familiar sound
a drape of honeybees had found a home
among the bones and weeping cherubs
blessing someones dust
inside and over words carved "Our Darling"
now a home for the bees
Today the honeybees are somewhat more seldom in their visits
but the wind still visits me
and reminds me of our affair
we whisper about what the raven knows
and mourn the blessings of the bees


Blair said...

What a beautifully evocative poem ...

Anonymous said...

Terrific poem, but where are the mooses?

Le Cornichon said...

Oh, The mooses are shopping for scallions, hiding from the Dog-a-diles, having cake and doing other general moose type things...they are certainly still around, if you remember where to look.

senate.side said...

Cher Cornichon
I was the first "anonymous" who asked where had all the Mooses gone, but you know me as senate side. That linc to the Mooses was my favorite bon bon, and I don't know where else to look for it. I am also a bit adrift for not having received any replies to my e-mails from Italy. Now, I am back after five months away. Have you changed your e-mail address?
Anyway, I love your thoughts and your style. Keep up the fine entertainment -- and bring back the Mooses, for Goodness' sake!!
Senate Side

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