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.