Pomp and Circumstance

The bumblebee was not dead.
At first, I thought she a piece of dirt
a stray bit of stone tossed from the
yards edge.
She moved in long morning shadow
legs slowly one by one
stretching to grasp some ledge
but only air greeted her, until
I moved a heavy blue cotton pad
made for carrying heated pots and boiling
bits of sinks and ovens towards her.
Now her delicate body clasped its
thread and ways
relieved perhaps to be upright
and not upon wings, useless.
She stood patiently regal on
the soft sea of cotton in my hand.
Like a court cup-bearer
I walked her to the garden
a far more shaded resting place than
the wood and rusted nail platform
first assumed her death bead.
No, here on green and living things
she could live out the remainder
of her hours in the comfort of
peace among the leaves of rosemary
and thyme.
They would see her sleep and
gladly lift her soul
to the Gods.


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