In September the bees spend hours
on the saucers of rose sedum,
their curled legs moving over petals
fleshy as rubber brushes.
I thought bees never stood still.
These hardly move,
becoming both the needle
and the painstaking fingers that hold them
until they cover each inch of tapestry.
This one lands on a filament
of coreopsis moonbeam,
floating down, down to the dirt
till flung back
through the undulating architecture.
Righting itself it begins to investigate
the intricate netting, old bridal veil,
tiny yellow-tipped buds,
the ignored world at ankle level.
Down on my knees
I toil beside it and the others I see
hidden in the system of green stems.
I hum along, drawn
by their noisy concentration.
Nothing gets in their way,
not my elbow, my shadow, my scent.
Let them sting me,
brash as I am.
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