Burying weather—
the stark heat
we sweat in, saying
our good-byes. Flowers
bend in it,
embarrassed
almost—the agony
of growing, the great
effort, trying
not to die—this eulogy
the daisies write
by sunlight, in storm,
in the fall of what
greets us all. Hurt
is not meant
by the blades of summer
the bumblebee somehow
swims around—
then away. For now,
the sting
of being—
tomorrow already
a memory, a bite
bright & burning.