The Day of the Three Thousand Flowers

1 March 2018

And though it is a twelfth of a teaspoon,

the sum of all honey she gathers

in her lifetime of a few weeks—

collecting pollen or nectar 
from her solitary votaries, 
legion of immobile virgins

yielding to her tongue, relinquishing 
the bloom of their desires

to her who has wings

(among the vulgar flowers, not a one 
could touch each other or themselves!)
—
it is abundant. She soars over

the scent of longing, buzzing to a rhythm 
she set for herself, choreographer

of round or waggle dance.

For her sisters, she charts the path

with the sextant of her thorax,

telling others of the fervid spring.

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