the clover and the bee
held a requiem for my departing spirit
though I had not died
nor had I crossed that river of ghostly intersession
spoken of -- in hushed tones
between illness and that last soft breath
in darkened apricot-bathed chambers
of deepest reverence

lavender light shone in the pupil of Death's eye
glowing his ravenous invitation to me
cruelly -- at my weakest state
between the yellowed bedclothes of illness
and the bone-white shroud of sleeping clay

my stalwart spirit jumped to remembrance
of that hidden strength
in my secret cupboard
of once-forgotten thoughts
where sunny, buzzing meadows
are locked away on tiny hooks
-- for such a needy day
long nourished on blossomed perfume and
the sweet honey
of my innermost ponderings
and hopes

with every sinew of my last effort
I rallied with uncertain goad
and sitting straight
I whispered

NO

~~~
Death heard that word as a shout
and flew
on bat-winged terror
out
of
the round window
in my soul
leaving me whole
and alone
with the fragrance of the clover
and hearing only the breeze
and the friendly hum
of my physician
the
golden honeybee