The bush that made bees
grew outside our front steps.
Three concrete steps
and depending on the mood
I had sat on each –
the first for gloom
the middle for talking
the third for summer nights
and star gazing –
beside the steps
the bush with odd flowers
that drooped,
began as tiny closed bags
that hung and grew and grew
fatter and fatter as if a caterpillar
grew inside
but I knew better,
someone had told me
or I had come to the fact on my own
each little parcel that dangled and expanded
contained a bee.
When I was not watching
never when I did and I did
the parcels would spring open
and the inside creature escaped capture
leaving behind a little flower
like a bush of tiny vases
stolen from some mother’s miniature kitchen.
The bush was the birthplace of the bees
that buzzed constantly around the bush
then spread from there out
to go gold digging
in the rest if mum and dad’s garden.
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