bee sting

My currently hideously swollen ankle (see attempted matricide) reminded me of the last time I was stung by a bee, and decided that I really needed to get rid of my hive. This is an abridged version of the poem I wrote at the time:

My hand slowly swells
as the venom spreads,
until, stretched smooth,
all the wrinkles disappear
and all the tiny hidden scars
stand out clear –
my history, written on my hands.

Revelation

In response to Eugi’s weekly prompt, “August“, and also inspired by VJ’s daffodils:

On the western front of winter,
at the eastern edge of spring
A seal of frost is broken…

Come and See:
they have risen,
haloed in gold.