You stop this morning to look closely 

at a bumblebee hanging upside down 

on goldenrod where she’s been sleeping

through the cool October night, dreaming, 

you assume, of flying back and forth to her hive 

while you were driving fast down a mountain road 

pumping useless brakes,  and elsewhere in the world 

rain was falling here and there, missiles were doing

what missiles do, and, as always, rivers flowed.

What meaning can be found in this? Maybe none.

Only the bee will wake up soon and she’ll keep on

taking as much pollen as she can to her hive 

before winter arrives. And you go on your way 

glad to be visiting her world.