BEE

What do I know of love?
Nothing was my first response
Groveling in the pleasure
Of making, past grief.
Sacrifice of yours for theirs
Laying down, what there is
Of me, for them. Race saved
By desire; like a wave’s deep
Swell, moving across the surface
To collapse in turbid violence
Upon the shore. An unrequited
Look, perhaps? Repented of
After; or that you serve
Not for whom you give;
Equated with war: resolution
Of opposites; giving wholly
To bless the believer.
Your divinity trusted to the altar
Ridicule and shame accepted
Without recourse, yet it is kind
Gentle, the essence of life
Patience in suffering, or seen
In the bud that bursts to bloom
Then pink petals trembling with the bee.

c) Jan G. Otterstrom F.
    January 1, 2007