I grew up in a neighborhood of bungalows
All swarmed together on an even grid
In uniform aluminum siding sprouting from
Their cinderblock Michigan basements
Our small yard was the odd home to a
Medley of mulberry trees and a
Lone rhubarb which had somehow
Found a home along side the aluminum fence
When summer came around each year
The mulberries would bloom and grow
And I would pick them when they
Were bright red, much sweeter than
When deep ripened purple
Nests of bees, attracted by the berries
Were common in the yard
And often made their homes in the small
Cracks in the mortar which bound
Together the cinderblocks
The blocks which propped
Up our home and formed a whitewashed
Perimeter around the rectangle box
Every year my father fought the bees
With cans of lethal poison waiting
For the evening when they were
All nestled in their hive
He snuck up slowly to the spot that
Then looked like nothing more than
An innocent crack in the white
Spraying the substance
Thoroughly vanquishing the
Workers and their queen
Every year he did this but one
This year my father found himself
Busied by some backyard project
And frustrated by the return of a nest
Decided to smear wet powdered cement
Over the crack in the mortar
In all his manliness he strode over
To the crack and plastered on the
Grey swipe, marring the perfect white cinder
Effectively blocking the exit
This year he would avoid the perfunctory
Trip to the hardware store and the ritual dance
Can in trepidatious hand
(with attached plastic straw)
In victory he laughed as my
Mother and I applauded our hero
For two long days and nights
The bees busied themselves in the wall
Presumed by all of us dead
On the third day our basement
Buzzed with joyous dancing bees
Freed from their soft mortar prison
“Always the beautiful answer, who asks a more beautiful question.”
- E. E. Cummings
What is it that makes a question beautiful?
Does it paint an image of sunlight,
peppered with flowers and butterflies?
Or does beauty itself imply a question
As beauty implies life and the mystery of continuation
Yes, continuation is the key, it must
create movement from one moment through the next
It should give a sense of time, yet hint at timelessness
with past, present and future all rolled up into one
Is love transcendent?
And the answer is simpler still
It is
A coy glance
With lashes full of eyes
Asks the question
The turned up corners
Of your mysterious mouth
Hint at a smile
Peering deep I see
The stars floating in the
Blue of your gaze
Heaven and earth
Come together
In this light
Swallowing the dark
In just a glance
At this moment
I don’t want to know the answer
But when I find it
I know it will be beautiful
Beneath the grass outside my door
Lie layers of earth, rock, and water
Some may examine it and
See centuries of history
Past weather patterns
And remnants of species that
Roamed these parts so long ago
But I see only dirt
Above my head
Through layers of smog and atmosphere
And light years of nothing
Some might see the
Beautiful ballet of expanding matter
Helium from hydrogen in orbital decay
But I see only light
Upon close inspection
You may be seen as bone and flesh
A finely integrated machine of
Blood and muscle and brain
Tightly bound by epidermis
And fueled by autonomic interaction
But I don’t see any of those things
I see only hope
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