Its name is bee.
Its name is fly.
It lands near me,
To catch my eye.
On coffee lid,
On wiper blade,
In barefoot Sun,
Or shoe in shade.
A wrinkling skin,
A finger still,
Remembered breath,
An open will.
It cleans its wing
With steady cause.
I'll take no life
That gives such pause.
Mar 30, 2014
Mar 30, 2014 at 2:29 PM UTC
Its name is bee.
Its name is fly.
It lands near me,
To catch my eye.
On coffee lid,
On wiper blade,
In barefoot Sun,
Or shoe in shade.
A wrinkling skin,
A finger still,
Remembered breath,
An open will.
It cleans its wing
With steady cause.
I'll take no life
That gives such pause.
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