Once

by CATHY BARBER

     A golden shovel after Terri Glass 

Once upon a time, dear grandchild, they flew. With
tiny bodies, tinier legs, they were a
black-striped band of the most delicate
gardeners. They dipped in open flowers, the brush
of their hairs collecting golden dust, then flew on. I
remember they would cultivate, gather
from families of irises, orchards of apples, pollen
sticking and unsticking, clinging and dropping from
one cucumber, avocado, cashew, to the next. And the
buzz they made was electric. A flower
was an exquisite creation, but so was the bee. Yes, once
upon a time they made motion in fields; each bee’s
dance-like flights and stops doing the world’s work.