The neighbor’s bees, his chattel, 
are healthy again, and back they’ve come 
to work in my garden. 

What shelter’s more felicitous than 
a squash blossom? The bees are busy, yes, 
but do they know enough to call that happiness? 

Living dust clings to their legs 
and wings. Six male flowers tremble 
for every pregnant bloom, 

and to touch them is a terrible intimacy. 
How can bees be property? 
How can a garden? 

Small white houses in an orchard: 
A good life, near the children, 
near the graves.