On:

Here is the light he was born intofragile green glowalready in wind and leavesday winding downTo open a tunnel of airTo hover above the cloverhomeless in lovewith the touch of earthTo waver in brush and weedsInvincible flit of flight John Davis is a polio survivor and the author of GigsContinue Reading

On:

“To find a new unthought-of nonchalance with the best of Nature!” — Walt Whitman, from Leaves of Grass Ada is naked, kneeling among the fennel of their front yard garden. The Evening rises balmy, still, golden with pollen lit by an ebbing sun.Ada is toiling in their garden of fennel,Continue Reading

On:

—I am the spent Queen, this crown tarnishing.I’m aware you prepare to replace me.You see, I sense royal jelly stirringin the nearby cell, some lowly beesoaking in the bath, her body jeweledas she receives. How quickly I’m deposed.Since I can no longer produce a brood,my body shrivels to nothing. Disposed.Continue Reading

On:

I’m sitting on the porch.—Bees out of nowhere,the UPS guy says, “It’s a swarm, scary.” First I heard them, a loud rubbing enginedusting the sky like a sunlit orb or a dark bubble lifted out of string and rubber without the oily chrome.Only blondish density, and fear, imagining I wasContinue Reading

On:

The pollinators sing,and the perennials dance through their short little lifespan. The bridge takes us over the water,And my two little wheels gift me freedomand grant me an overwhelming sense of calm. I wish that nature would take back over, and we could lay downand relinquish the earth unto her.(HerContinue Reading

On:

Can you stay late today?We really need to play catch-up. It’s not more responsibility,It’s just a shift in duties. I wanted to be in the movies,That didn’t happen. Then I wanted to be behind the camera,That never happened. I thought I could write about it,Who cares? I want to beContinue Reading

On:

It seems I now see symbolsscattered everywhere. Like the nightmy husband called me overto look out the second-floor windowto the courtyard below, wherewe could see our hive boxesstacked in the ivy bed, illuminatedby the Harvest Moon. There, the lighton the outside of our house and the copper beeornament staked inContinue Reading

On:

The silhouette of a ridgehalf-clouded by morning fogmakes me think of scorched grass in early fallhemmed by leaves turning so fastI can watch them redden, change like corn or bamboo,——the mind toowatching white-blossomed oregano, bees, flying ants, a moth,it’s only when they’ve all flown offthat the signs of endings becomeContinue Reading

On:

Honey never goes bad. My husband always bought bear shaped honey. He called me Honey, or Hun when he was looking over the paper wanting my opinion—the one that agreed with his. I prefer jars. When the honey solidifies, dense enough to be hung from a chain like amber, it’sContinue Reading