The movement of bees across the lilacs,
group brilliance spread, for each flower we touch,
has its own due time, a suckle, a rub,
powdered noses, compound but bloodshot eyes,
quick departures to drop off sweet treasure,
returns in wing-step to resume harvest,
never missing a beat or a petal.

We are the we who colonize this place.
You move, I fill, you fill my move, and so
we dance a pert, apian polonaise,
primal patterns that intoxicate us,
gluttonous pleasure amid the nectar,
I roll in the musky charms of Venus,
sans the desire to come up for air.

The hive is a place for our alchemy,
where powders convert to beads of gummy
cone-nestled honey, the local terroir,
the minerals and startdust peculiar
to only us, there’s no others like us,
anywhere in the throbbing that surrounds,
nor the worlds of impulse we hold within.

We move like a magic hand, our chevrons
sketch the same subtlety as our synapse,
similar circuitous routes we take
over the landscape, this ecosystem
is home, we are the flight we imagine,
we are patterns we choose, gestures we make,
bonds we forge, one in the one of it all.

© Carlos Chagall, 2013

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