by Ethel Mortenson Davis
She did not know
about the way of bees
until the full moon
had woken her up
and moved her through
the quiet house,
halfway lit-up
by silver dust,
to the outside door.
Barefoot, she headed
through the gate
to the western trail
where cool, velvet dust
squeezed through her toes.
She decided to check
the apple blossoms
and was surprised to see
bees, at night, collecting nectar.
Beside the swollen creek,
honey-suckle branches
were laden with bees.
She did not know
about the way of bees
until the moon tapped
on her window,
calling her name.
copyright © 2011, White Ermine Across Her Shoulders
