Ursula Murray HustedGarden (watercolor)

You knocked on my door today—I know you did.
I heard your little hand hit the door frame once

like wood groaning in a dark December cold, popping
and shifting under the weight of the longest

night of the year, the sound of a bumblebee throwing
itself against a window pane over and over,

the sound of a root breeching a foundation, the sound
of water trickling between the wall

and the poured concrete floor, the sound of the joints
in the fingers cracking with arthritis,

the sound of someone stepping on a wood thrush’s nest,
the sound of a rabbit trapped in a bramble

as the thorns grow into her fur, the sound of a hive
of bees fallen from a tree and lost in a wild

swirl on the grass, the sound of a scab breaking open
and a little blood coming forth,

the sound of sleep dropping open as it hits waking
and steams away, the sound of a doe

biting the heads off all the tulips, the sound of a young
buck’s antlers breaking skin and budding,

the sound the bumblebee’s heart makes when the moon
touches its meridian, the sound the bumblebee’s

feet make scraping up pollen from the garlic mustard
on the roadside, the sound my door makes

when I don’t open it—I don’t open it—I can’t
open it—come in.


Phoebe Reeves