by Gail Entrekin

I could have been a bee in a paradisiacal swoon
entranced by a foxglove, the way it stood
so tall, so faintly swaying arrhythmically
in the wind and never breaking,
its hundred tiny flowerets, blue and rose and gold
all changing as it grew, one shade into another
for my delectation, and the way, even if its heavy stalk
finally bent to the ground under its weight,
its bloom would turn slowly, its green stem
arching up again toward the light, rising
from the ground where it lay, and I would find it
there in its last and smallest days, visit all
its fruity places, hang back in the shadows
of its fading and forgetting, still a little delirious
in its dusty pollen.


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