In the Months of the Bumblebee

White roses were never yours.
Those bells of ivory silk
you turned from,
like peace refused.

But here,
upon this trembling twig of plum flowers,
your hive of stone-blooms cracks apart,
awaiting my touch—
and now the sunlit burst has come:
“Till you, I slept.”

I turn to wide December
and think: I drank your world from blue snow.
Rubbing crimson petals together,
pollen dust falls from my fingers
to bone-white silt.
I see how you stood upon
your floral throne,
the moment your wings

stilled their hum.
Your thorax gilt,
shroud of gold.
I cupped breath;
you would not take it.
One step—and one more!
Meadows regrew upon
the gravestone.

Five moons turning in quiet,
you lie beneath the cactus,
where you made your final vow.
Thorny, your blood drawn down
to earth like a pin.

“Remember—for you will know—
I, too, have lived by May; its thunder
is better than its tears.“