7.2.08

From Allah's Book of Reflections

As the bee tends
the tendrils of time
on the outskirts
of her metaphysical chores,
she is weightless, harmless, free.
Her chapels are flowers

in space and so small.
Daisy, peony, carnation:
you paper-puzzles, you grand masters
how about me? Is this a Valentine?

Hey pollen pushers, egg minders
in the society of specialists,
who gave you your orders
to sting and mend?
All this subatomic origami, all these stars.

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