Bright with bumblebees, the meadow frolicks in the sentimental sun. A child with a magnifying glass haunts the ants and butterflies. When I see a giant Monarch come up behind him with a giant one, I don’t tell the kid until he’s starting to singe a little. I side with the hexagonal bees in all things, from dancing to dissing. If the bees don’t like you, neither do I. I was born a poppy in a field of pastel dreams.
