SONNET IN BEE FLAT There must be a place (but I've yet to find one) beneath the Sol-drawn dawn

of autumn skies where cut-throat trout still find the heart to run and the fullness of Summer's life never dies. There, as if Earth had changed rotation, Instead of honey, nature gathers dew and composes a world without notation. Unlike the life of old, this work is new. Despite the nearing gray cold wintry blast, the twisted fir tree keeps her dreams of green, of a chamomile welwitschian past, and buzzing yellow flights of friends less seen. But bees still dance their flower pollen-aise, a song of haze gold mid-October days. -----------------------------------mindbringer, 19 October 2009

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