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| Blooming in their drift |
This poem written since writing began,
clouds blooming in their drift,
the pitches of bees, the function of grief.
A small, brown ant searches the page,
mad for pheromones—so like us, you say?
Yet I have grown weary of searching.
I wait, instead, for my time,
turning away from the end
to watch rain falling through oaks in the gray.
I wait with my words and my questions.
Did I love the right people,
stopping this moment to wonder
at the chatoyance of puddles on a dirt road.
Have I squandered my life?
—after Louise Glück's "Winter Recipes from the Collective"
