Western Pennsylvania

Two honeybees. The first is to the top-right of the third stanza and the second is to the left of the third stanza.

My insides crave

the outside.

Linked with nature, I am

“that weird girl” who doesn’t quite fit in

sitting in a tree,

sliding hands across rough bark

gripping branches, hugging trunks

as the trees and I listen

together for a whisper from Jesus who

loves me, loves me, yes,

Jesus loves me.

Walking barefoot across our green hill,

over clover and cheerful dandelions,

I step on an average of

six unlucky bees per summer.

Mom, removing

yet another thick stinger

from my reddened heel,

suggests with frustration,

“Shoes perhaps??”

But the hot prick

and lingering swollen itch

cannot eclipse

soft, cool grass

against bare soles.

A honeybee to the bottom-right of the third stanza.