not buzzing, not much intonation,

I consider the hive perched on the tree,

and conjecture if I could extract some honey,

to bestow the day with a sweetness,

I can not savor, but discern and concede,

by heeding the clear golden flush,

and the strands as I finger it and above,

those rupturing lines, swirls of purity,

the measures of which I can not fathom,

but I can strive to discern, concede

the marvels of that edifice,

where it is concocted, prepared into

the divine reward of nature, the scents

of which, I gulp in, even if they’re not there,

but I could acquire the traces of familiarity,

which I thought, I had never had,

ah! I sigh… and I depart from the moment,

when I gave a glance, and disregarded,

the vision now glorified into a serene scene,

through the electrons, I am entitled to,

which have altered what took place,

into something, I could only fancy, had


This is tagged as the poem for 28 November for NaBloPoMo.

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