The Bumble bee Symphony (Also included in D Major)

A bee defying gravity

is not a miracle.

the same for a lonely F sharp

short on staff.

Writing a single poem is impossible –

 

The discordant artist tightens

Someone grips the violin’s neck

In a crowd of nervous cellos

and bases. “Do you know where

she is?” They whisper as an audience shuffles in.

 

All of us are waiting for something beautiful.

 

Central Park spring a bee hums to himself

Noisily at his work, not concerned about God or any

ethereal meaning.

 

Over the microphone labored breaths pummel out

In static pulses; she’s made it for no reason because now

They’ve left.

 

“I’m not finished,” says a ruffled American composer

at the front of the world.

 

Now she’s found some purpose

without a sound – she finished this sentence.

The late night blooming is sadly beautiful.

 



 

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