Recollection

A bee trades nectar for honey and so will I

have more than I had once this is all over?

The fog comes in the morning and as I part

from the dreams I collected, I cry happy

tears like I did three hundred and sixty 

days ago heading home towards the future.

Yes, some things are never meant to be

since I let them be and moved on without,

and yes, the hardest part of each day is ending

it gently, turning mud to gold to mud again.

A bee collects nectar for honey and so will I,

once this is all over, become sweeter with my labor 

in ways I can’t imagine? The choice wasn’t mine 

to be another fatherless and wide-eyed drone.

Mystery lies between the legs of night,

sticky like my hands ripe with pomegranates. 

I know my own balance. The same weight

is both forward and back and present 

like how my love never grows bigger but

I discover more of it as I travel.

A bee trades nectar for honey and so will I

take back my wealth, always having had more?

Dusk comes with evening united and uniting

like my momentary glue. I cry happy

tears like I will in three hundred and thirty 

days heading home towards everything past.

Yes, everything always is and always will be

even when I am full of spite and hubris,

and yes, the easiest part of each day is sleeping

through it all, letting the noise fight itself.

A bee collects nectar for honey and so will I,

like always, work circles around time

in ways I already imagine? The choice is mine 

like the recipe is simple and the ingredients ready.

Like a field of wild poppies, joy exists everywhere. 

There’s joy in floundering and there’s joy in waiting.

There’s joy in shavasana in breathing in

through my nose and out through my mouth.

I flounder, I wait, I breathe slowly now in

anticipation, turning to gold to mud again.