Purple blooms sprouting,
the wild teasel and the bee
meet each other here.

Soft, endless asters,
the bees are mad for them now—
and I’m mad for both.

Soft yellow faces,
the bee and the sunflower
cling to each other.

The field is waist deep,
taller than me in some places,
rabbits in darkness.

This field remembers
every full moon this year—
steps of deer through it.

Turkeys rest in trees,
cicadas sing all day long,
bees, wild for thistle.

Feeding on the light
of the bright orange cosmos—
the bee, in mid-air.

Bed of sleeping bees,
sunflower, a yellow moon
quiet and blooming.

Covered in pollen,
a bee works a teasel bloom,
the breeze blows us both.