Found a bumble bee on my walk,
doubled over, dead, but freshly so—
with a velvet coat still bright
as a morning daffodil.
Its black enamel eyes
were frozen in some unknowable expression
which felt familiar and sad.
The weightless body was the size
of my fingertip, and as I held it in my palm
I thought of bringing it home,
placing it on the table for you to see—
but we’d just had dinner there
and you didn’t seem interested in my details,
which is why I took the walk
that led me to the silent bee—
and I admired his grounded wings, alone,
before returning his lifeless body
to the bed of bright green weeds.