The sunflowers are still standing. Most of the seeds are gone, and most of the leaves. And yet there is still a small lateral bloom here and there, way up high, as if, in their kindly old age, the plants are still thinking of the bees. The bees themselves are few. Those I have seen seem both busy and confused — busy about the world’s end; busy about the sky, intense and blue; busy about my shoe. There is not one thing I can tell them, and yet I do — I feel it too — in the rhythm of my blood, and the rhyme of the cold.
October 11, 2019
[ 537 ]