Bees
by Jane Hirshfield
In every instant, two gates.
One opens to fragrant paradise, one to hell.
Mostly we go through neither.
Mostly we nod to our neighbor,
lean down to pick up the paper,
go back into the house.
But the faint cries—ecstasy? horror?
Or did you think it the sound
of distant bees,
making only the thick honey of this good life?
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3 comments:
lovely how we are left, pointed toward, not sure what, straining to see into some indefinite.
thanks, she's a favorite
Beautiful, beautiful.
Listen up. She said.
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