One grief, all evening—: I’ve stumbled

upon another animal merely being

itself and still cuffing me to grace.

This time a bumblebee, black and staggered

above some wet sidewalk litter. When I stop

at what I think is dying

to deny loneliness one more triumph,

I see instead a thing drunk

with discovery—the bee entangled

with blossom after pale, rain-dropped blossom

gathered beneath a dogwood. And suddenly

I receive the cold curves and severe angles

from this morning’s difficult dreams

about faith:—certain as light, arriving; certain

as light, dimming to another shadowed wait.

How many strokes of undivided wonder

will have me cross the next border,

my hands emptied of questions?