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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