Whitman speaks of loafing,
accused by others of laziness.
Little did they know the busy hum
behind his half-closed eyes,
synaptic leaps within stilled hands,
that interior gathering of gold
to seed lines, verses, bold and
shocking images.
That fat bee, the furry one buzzing
the chive flowers, seems such a fumbler,
bumping its way from bloom to bloom,
no airy dance to alert its hive mates,
no wariness, no hurry.
Some disdain this visitor as unproductive
since it yields no honey we can hoard.
Yet what looks messy, so
shambling, proves
its own style of pollen stealing,
pollen transfer,
and its thick pile means even
we in northern climes
reap its fruitful benefits.
-Anne Bower
Anne Bower has two published chapbooks and poetry in numerous literary journals, including Naugatuck River Review, Gemini, The Literary Nest, and Light Journal. She teaches tai chi in rural Vermont, is devoted to famiy (in the largest sense), honors the voices and power of activists. www.annebower.com