I sit in the kitchen,
under a thinning calendar.
At this time of year
I’m always too tired to write.
Outside, the weak, midafternoon sunlight
balances on shadow-stilts.
A bee – perhaps the last – passes slowly
over the dried out honeysuckle; lands.
Stumbling from stamen to stamen, it adds,
even now, bullion to the panniers
strapped to its sides.
©2011 Dan Wyke