The flowered bush beside my door
has climbed a dozen summers and
grown tall. I stood beneath it just
this morning, in its shadow watched
the bees harvest its powdered gold,
the fall of petals reaching for my face
like children and old friends who loved
me yet, inviting me to stay.
The pull of earth, cool morning wind
too new, too full of promise, honeybees
and winking dew. And me turned gray
under a dozen summers while I trimmed
its shooting branch and damped its
drying root. They passed by me like
hummingbirds, too fast to catch,
almost too fast to see til here I stand
with only words and an empty hand.
Perhaps a little more—
the sweet white flowers at my feet
and the bush beside my door.
Spicewood 6/15/09
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