Woods, the birds on branches, swing
words, the forest trees, will sing
of summer winds, a leafy song of green
blue the sky is painting, not a cloud
only the sparkling of sun, a song
of mosses warmed, a fragrance undone
black and fuzzy yellow bees, circle hypnotically
tiny hunters, drunk with pollen, disappearing
in the tiger lily towers, and fly they
home to serve a sacred queen
all the day, the sweetness
of gathering honey