A brazen bumblebee interrupts the breeze,
holds court with low-lying clouds
and consorts with our lonely azaleas.
The sun is none the wiser.
The sky is falling, perhaps. Or sighing,
lying itself flat with cobalt glee. Have we
bumbled this? we ask of clouds, while
a brazen bumblebee interrupts the breeze.
Mumble me some small lullaby, as
a brazen bumblebee interrupts the breeze,
flying right into the face of a shrouded,
fading moon. We’ll be home soon.
Golden in its own bright lonely skin, the sun
mumbles in, falling perhaps, with glee –
a brazen bumblebee interrupting the breeze.
The day’s abuzz with salt, and song.
prompted by Quickly.