bees in the meadow

poems and stories from the in-between

Month: March, 2017


there is no moon out


and I am thinking of tides, of receiving and releasing, how we grip and strip

to the bones all that’s good in this life, how we turn and twist ourselves

into knots of longing, how we hold on.

we hold on.

oh, but loving is letting go. loving is agony

washed with tenderness. you can never hold on to anyone.

you have to leave them where they are: a field apart from yours.

and the long grasses wave in the wind

between you, and you can see them there, and their arms are waving too,

calling you. I am here, they seem to say. come and find me.

and you walk, you try to meet them, but they will always be

apart from you, somehow, no matter how close—how close—how close you get.

we drift like planets,

each one alone.

but I take comfort in this:

we can sing to one another

in the dark.




in the greening field,

a woman lay.

milky body turned up to the sun,

she surrendered

to the death

and the quickening

around her.

her form lay slumped

against the earth,

sprawled lazily, luxuriantly,

stroked by the gentle

touch of grass,

the mellow-soft wind.

she found no fault with life.

she saw herself as though from a great distance,

languishing there

in the greening field.

thought and panic had abandoned

her mind,

which lay tranquil as a lake,

full of nothing

but the humming

of bees.

the letter

here it is,

my first scrap of Word.

(they are all the first, really,

no matter when they come.)

so here it is,

sent through the ether

and the mist,

to the chalky step

of your front door.

I have sung it awake

with ink, drop by drop

against a white sea.

I have sung it awake.

I have sent it

to you.

will you pick it up,


my sweet, lonely Word?

will you cradle it

as I have,

and remember?