All its life the poem has been a wanderer

a voyeur too

and a shameless eavesdropper

in the garden it sniffs

at the blossoms

trying to find the

sex of the bee

deposited on leaves

and caught on small branches

the poem peeps through the foilage

then takes a good look

how else can it write the

nectar of honey

if is does not

lick the stickiness