I had seen the bee in the flower three days ago,
when I was positioning the sprinkler in the grass
below the tiered garden. Dawn’s sun hadn’t
dispelled the Autumn’s night-chill. I thought
it was torpid, waiting for the heat of day
to warm its wings.

The Dahlia had come from the neighbor’s
when they moved, a year ago. Just a bulb-thing
with a dead stem poked up. So, I planted it,
was thrilled when it grew into a stately sight.
Problem was, it got real tall before it budded.
And being on the front edge of the garden,
cats constantly arched against the forked stick
holding it up. Several times I had come out
and found it half-fallen, twisting the stem
until it couldn’t be straightened upright without
harming it more. I had used another stick,
to keep it from breaking off, angled over the yard,
which slanted even further from waterings and rains.

So I put the sprinkler on the garden wall, instead.

I got to thinking how the bee had picked
a beautiful, though fading, flower to overnight in;
the bee was in the middle, the petals half-folded
over it’s drowsing form. It made me think of people
choosing their personal forms of protection
from their perceptions of life's nights.

The next day, I saw the bee in the flower, again.
This time, I thought how smart the bee was,
to use that same flower twice. The pinkness
of the bloom was darkening, its essence,
shrinking over the insect's still form, like a blanket.

It rained last night.

Today, when I came out to check, the bee,
not suprisingly, is there. Because it is dead.
And the flower is, too. Shriveled over the bee.
I can only see dead insect eyes and a bit of a wing.
It’s been entombed.

Like me, but, I’m alive…

Erin Elizabeth Kelly-Moen
© Copyright 10/30/04