March 23, 2015. With ten fresh inches of snow last night, after a nearly snowless winter, this came in a flash….
LATE SNOW
Some bumblebees overwinter.
On the first warm days
they’re on stage,
as big as your thumb—
nuzzling the tissue paper
of the iris,
bending the tulips’ hoop-
skirts. But think of it:
all winter they sleep
under white fathoms.
Do they dream?
Wrapped in their cellophane wings,
each thorax the color of the sun
they’ll awaken to? Do they dream
of fragrant work?
Iridescent tunnels
and pliant labyrinths?
Marauded liquor cabinets?
They’re fashioned to want;
that’s the circuit:
to wake with a thirst
puts the bee in become,
behave, belong.
I sympathize;
but don’t wake today, bees:
keep dreaming. Today
the snow is fat moths,
ice and altar-cloth.
— Jim