The far reach
of this invisible blessing.

The inevitable responsibility.
How birth and death

share our bed.
This intimate inconvenience.

This dependence on the whir
of incessant insects.

This is our kingdom. Our rule.
Our satisfying delusion

that denies the growing quiet
of the injured meadows,

these vespers of death.
Listen to what we cannot hear.

Oh, sweet pollination.
Grant us another day, another season.

Embrace us in hum and chatter,
wild and sharing.

Deny us not. We are one and mated.
Oh, sweet pollination.


Poem by Steve Crowley

Steve Crowley lives in Oberursel, Germany. Sure, he’s published a bunch of poems and still runs an occasional poetry workshop, but mostly Steve strives to embrace nature as best he can each and every day.