Introduced ExoticsElizabeth Bradfield
September. Alaska. Birch are dropping leaves, but in my back yard, six sunflowers have bloomed at last from feeder-dropped seed —lazy chickadees and juncos— six sunflowers. For the last two days rain: bogs thick again after a puckering summer, but now sun. Sunflowers. So I'm in the yard and bees are going crazy. Each nub of pollen on the broad yellow discs tickles a bee. They're ga-ga for this dish of yellow, boomvy as a D-cup in angora, these blowsy vamps in a small-bud climate where natives crouch into unscented blooms, hunker against cold and wind, pollinated in their alpine meadows not, after all, by bees. These sunflowers my slack care has made. These bees taking advantage. Drunk on the excess. How they remind me of a life I once lived.
Elizabeth Bradfield Read Bio Author Discusses Poems
|©copyright 2004-2021, No Tell Motel. All poems ©copyright the authors.|