Is there a way to reach the end of thought
to see the yellow flowers and not say
goldenrod, both 'gold' and 'rod' so fraught
with meaning? Can 'sun' and 'moon' light the day
and night without becoming metaphors?
If a god appears, can I unknow which one
no name, no how and why, and just adore
the feet, or whatever my eye lands on?
Meanwhile, these panicles of gold alive
with insects exude their nectar, the field
abuzz with what to me almost looks like
ecstasy. If only I could stop words, yield
the pen, the page to the sunlit hour
watch the poem unwrite itself. Flower.
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I love how you used the sonnet form to express such a poignantly beautiful desire to inhabit the experience of the bee and the kind of immediacy of experience that that might offer, which language and culture might be keeping from us at arm's length. So much to unpack!
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