As if she has forgotten that

we are still February, the air is warm.

Steamy rain streams out of clouds

into puddles. Adventurous carp flip

their fins, adding yet more ripples.

The air is shy as if

she’s scared of carrying fish

from their pools, into the

arching birch trees. Waves of breezes waltz

lightly with the river’s current. Delicate

whistles set the beat.

All of the water’s inhabitants

quiet to listen. The air is humming

as if she has an idea

on the tip of her tongue.

Buoyant honey bees float on the stalks of lavender, more bees than I’d ever seen, yet quiet as an open-casket funeral. Somehow people fear the dead more when they can see their puffed and painted faces and bees more when they’re buzzing. Rows of gravestones a uniform dove gray fill the spaces between the beds of arching lavender and their bees. Jägermeister-esque deer carved cleanly into the stones stare out at me. Nearby, yellow rose blossoms flutter delicately in the breeze, but their thorny branches deter any thoughts of plucking one to tuck behind an ear. They have been manicured to perfectly frame the headstones, flowers lovingly grown. Bees bounce from grave to grave to hive, yet as if they can tell the dead are hidden beneath six feet of dirt, they buzz a happy song. 

Once pink skies have tucked themselves

into bed, I lust for sleep.

But it is a slippery creature, mastered

only by puppies, it seems.  

I watch one of these little lion tamers

yawn, lean into his pillow-soft fur, and sleep

finds me suddenly attractive.