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Apiary 40

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The humble sense of being alive   
under the towering sun   
fills the nectary and ripens apricots   
down to the last one,   
if Mnemosyne wakens from apathy   
each moment. It is the soft burly sound   
of a bee tumbled in fritillary,   
is it not?   
But if memory, as if to illustrate   
the mind was not yours to have,   
the mind was not given,   
fails us, leaving us in our underpants   
in the garden, should we not   
hate the garden,   
or the woman whose garden   
it is? And sunlight. Thunder.   
Rain. Hardened in heart against   
what earth compels and seizes,   
goddamning, goddamned rain.

Source: Poetry (March 2009)

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This poem originally appeared in the March 2009 issue of Poetry magazine

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Apiary 40

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