Ursula Murray HustedGarden (watercolor)

You left a gift for me yesterday—one
dead bumblebee, her soft body

and the soap bubble light of her wings
resting on my front step.

What could I give you in return?
I saw her as I was stepping

out to see the clematis’ new
buds, the open faces

of the creeping phlox and I held
a foot still above her where

she lay, spring barely started and
already she slept in a repose

that vibrated with space, the way
perfect silence is a sound,

her death a clear note reverberating
in the green of the roses’

new growth, unmarred by thrips
or blackspot yet. I left her

at my lintel, the singing of her death
limning the threshold.


Phoebe Reeves