Of Type

 
 Of type
we
brought the tulips to bud.
 
Of type
and origin, I
was amusing I suppose now.
 
Little bee, where did
you flutter off to?
Flying off to a thornless flower?
You won’t find pollen there.
 
                               Could you be more obscure
                               and I more abstract? 
                               Little bee, come home to me.
                               Little poison dagger, you wounded me.
                               When I looked at my
                                hands, so bloody from where I reached you my
                                encouragement ran out.
                                Next time, I will be more
                                cautious, aware. In the morning there is a
                                ray of life above me,
                                above me little bee.
                                Certain are you of failure. I am not so sure, I still
                                 know the thing you can’t see in your own face.
                                 Evidently you still have
                                 death on your mind.
                                 Certain you are
                                 of nothing at all,
                                 death was temporary for the Phoenix , we, little bee.
                                  Engulfed by fire and water, can rise again