Critique
Every week
A poem for the road
In the afternoon I observed
the bear; she was looking
the secret chest of sweetness:
honey, which bees store
in the cozy cavities of the trees.
A black block of darkness, she climbed
from tree to tree while dragging
through the woods. And then
she found it! The honey house so deep
than the heartwood, and dove into it
in the middle of the swarm of bees – honey and combs
that she licked, nibbled and emptied
with her black nails up
that she is perhaps full or sleepy, or perhaps
a little drunk and the carpet-brush
his arms are all sticky,
and starts humming and swaying.
I saw her let go of the branches,
I saw her raise her snout all covered in honey
in the leaves, and its big arms,
as if she wanted to fly –
a huge bee
all sweetness and wings –
in the meadows, perfection
honeysuckle, roses and clover –
to float and sleep in the fine curtains
swinging from flower to flower
day after radiant day.
Mary Oliver
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