reaching

waking to see the miracle

beyond the butterfly’s colors

or the spring tulips of rainbow

I bend in arched back breaking

and filling the divots on tread

I am the dirt on your shoes

and the embers dying out

leaving me dirty and cold

yet as happy in joy as when

I wash and warm

in the aftermath of suffering

there is calm

in looking around with content

knowing that sorrow is one

and joy is another

and fleeting and flitting are both

neither is constant

so I reach

a hand into dark

a hand into light

and find my heart

down the midline

in the slivery grey dove

of peace

honeycomb

these empty supers 

of six-sided cells 

wait for your 

whispering wings 

cocoon yourself 

into the comb 

create that sweet syrup 

the honey of 

you and me