The longer I look
At the dry brown pods
And white, bell-shaped,
Honey-fragrant blossoms
Among which the bees
Are plunging their heads,
The more the bees seem
The moving members
Of the tree’s flourish,
As the stream nearby
Is its running commentary,
And I, the observer,
Am taking notes on myself.

This article originally appeared in The New Criterion, Volume 21 Number 7
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