BUCKEYE BUDS UNDER AN OPEN SKY
of the first buckeye leaves. Palmate
fists stretch and unfurl their buds
as if in supplication,
that greeny prayer to the turning of the year.
Palms together, they pray to the sky
and to the returning light.
Then, as the days grow longer,
they begin to unfurl,
offering small green hands, palms up,
as if a gift to the sky and air,
opening up into starfish promises
until the trees are filled with offerings.
Then, the formation of small buds,
becoming vestal tapers to light the way
to the impossible blue vault of sky,
redolent with the sweet narcotic scent
the delicate blossoms, ladened with pale hues,
blooms no less complicated than orchids,
their stamens like curious whiskers
entice the honeybees in to drink deep,
only to die from that fatal ambrosia,
the mad honey’s revenge
on the footsoldiers of the hives.
A case where unexpected death occurs
when two incompatible systems collide.
Not so much for the native bumblebees
who sip and suck the buckeye with delight,
their sonorous song, a drone that fills the air
with the returning victory of spring.
& again, we are on the brink of yet another war.
3/16/22 CPITS Write On class, with Susie Terence
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