You have traveled full cycle these four weeks
taking refuge — those orange scalloped petals,
that pink heralding cradle,
these tips of Hosta blossoms,
inside and out.
While you have been busy saving the world
from hunger, I have barely understood
my purpose this week
let alone cleaned the house
but I have been wondering
about the absence of apples on our tree
for the third season.
How much do I dare ask from
you, Bumble, with your sticky tender fibrils
coated in pollen, carrying the weight of
hunger on your wings?
I can think of no fair recompense except
the rows of those prairie flowers I planted
which I see you’ve already
made a home and grave within.
—
Rebecca Surmont lives in Minnesota where she can fully enjoy the seasons and cycles of life that is often expressed in her work. She has a love of trains, corn fields, dogs, and tiny things. Her written work has been featured in MacQueen’s Quinterly, Stone Poetry Quarterly, Eunoia Review, Common Ground Review, Crowstep Literary Journal, and Ekphrastic Review, among others. She is currently working on her first chapbook.
