"Ignavum, fucos, pecus a praesepibus arcent.
Bees are defending their hives against drones, those
indolent creatures."

The bees have no interest
in my dead flowers- trinkets
dried and pressed against
the pages of my memories:

reminding notes of spring
and loved turned to hate
turned to ash turned
to dust lining faded petals
and fragile stems.

Good house keeping
dictates I throw away
useless things
that no longer serve.
I have too often
been discarded
to keep a clean home.

I become a collector
of fragments, scraps and scrapes
that prove I still live
to bleed, to cry,
to let my mind wander
indolent fields of thought.
I am indulgent.

Let your honeyed words
crystallize with time.
I will not eat them
though I keep each
syllable as a reminder
that words, like amber,
can trap the un-expecting.