Make a plan, they said even if it’s one tiny thing: write it down and do it every day. I am a compliant child, so I try to focus on this task but I can’t stop thinking about the bees yesterday, weaving a nest around the circle of darkness whose edge I held down with my body the bees’ song streaming with light, a circle of sun and honey hope, the lines of their path darkening to golden meaning that forms a basket among the manzanita whose arms carry us all, blushing blossoms of snowlight twinkling among red bones, the smooth cold life bones twined with gray and black striations of the past, of death achieved and inextricable, a zentangle of growing In my chest I can feel the stones standing still in sun and shadow, feeding earth’s cold into my fingertips Behind my eyes I can feel the bees’ circling warmth and the circle of sky they ring for me How can I make any plan when this holds me, when this will be enough to hold open the window of my heart, and there find space for every pollen and mosquito, every passerby and memory, every dark pool and bright morning?
A Plan
A Plan
A Plan
Make a plan, they said even if it’s one tiny thing: write it down and do it every day. I am a compliant child, so I try to focus on this task but I can’t stop thinking about the bees yesterday, weaving a nest around the circle of darkness whose edge I held down with my body the bees’ song streaming with light, a circle of sun and honey hope, the lines of their path darkening to golden meaning that forms a basket among the manzanita whose arms carry us all, blushing blossoms of snowlight twinkling among red bones, the smooth cold life bones twined with gray and black striations of the past, of death achieved and inextricable, a zentangle of growing In my chest I can feel the stones standing still in sun and shadow, feeding earth’s cold into my fingertips Behind my eyes I can feel the bees’ circling warmth and the circle of sky they ring for me How can I make any plan when this holds me, when this will be enough to hold open the window of my heart, and there find space for every pollen and mosquito, every passerby and memory, every dark pool and bright morning?