All summer, the bees worked
between bells of laburnum
sockets of foxglove, blades of lavender
—they saw a task and rose to it.
I busy myself with the washing
untwisting funnels of sock, boughs of jumper
rosettes of flannel.
In spare moments I put words in the freezer
reheat coffee, fill inkwells
I stir out hot dinners.
Passing along the hall sheaved in light
I imagine a nectarous meadow
I think of waxen wings brought thudding
to the ground.
I look down at my dress and see spikes of burdock
thistles in plaits hanging all around.
Crayons, soldiers, ropes of daisy
the couch, the doorknob, the stairs—
They all gather to me
Until I stand and rub my hind legs emphatically
until I disengage everything
to its proper place
and emerge like a queen
made anew from decades of trying.
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