Crossing a Field of Bees

After Being Recently Stung

The deer trail I was walking disappeared

before it crept three feet into a field

of weed crowns, but I didn’t want to yield

to tangled stems, the flowers that I feared

because of bees. I didn’t want them cleared

either. The goldenrod and rose, which sealed

me from the other side so well, revealed

the dance of bee on bud, a dance that veered

toward majesty. I took the slow ramrod

of my shoulder and inched my way along,

withstood the wings like the breath of god

upon me. From the other side, their song

seemed good. I saw my wake of trampled breeze,

and then the stitching back and forth of bees.

—Charles Rafferty

(Poem copyright 1999)