In the Dark

On a stormy Sunday night,
during evening mass,
a tree has fallen
onto the power line.

The electric candles have gone dark,
the electric organ has gone quiet,
the preacher’s microphone has gone out,
the sacred has gone
silent.

I stare ahead
waiting for my eyes to adjust,
hoping to see the believers,
straining my ears
for their faithful whispers.

But the priest has left us all
in the dark.
He busies himself
looking for the fusebox
in a vain attempt
to enlighten us all.



Traveling like the Bees

I move slow as honey
dripping from flowers
the buzzing all around me
in busses, in trains,
especially in the air.
All whirs and chatters,
I’m not used to this:
moving as the bird flies
a bee line toward home.

The clouds temps me,
their siren wail begging me to stay
but I cannot rest.
We’re too busy to ever slow
like a hummingbird in flight.

I travel with the bees
buzzing, chattering,
I don’t know
what they dance about.
I’ve never stopped to listen
except to drink their honey
my shaky legs covered in pollen.
I fly on,
flower to flower,
to home.