When a Bee is Caught
       

This is mother and wood—both rooted in blossom.
My grandmother's dust not far away.

They can't catch these threads of web rippling
through the air like wings.

When a bee is caught, he panics in the soft strands, but I wind
my patience around it—no struggle—only

harmony and gold
in my tune, and like him

I'm left alone, veined to flowers
pulling out silk from my mouth.

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Copyright © 2018 Jona Colson All rights reserved
from Said Through Glass
Washington Writers' Publishing House
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission