Where are you going busy bee
that you have no more time for me?
There are blossoms to explore,
pools to contemplate with heavy
leaves that meditate,
like quiet verdant monks.
How you flit and fold your wings
and give no thought to the barbed stings
that your hurried travels bring
to the oafish stumbling fool
who thought he could hold you in his hand.
Well, there are the passing tides
and time all greatness hides
beneath her heavy robes of grey,
but when the heart has lost its' race
the loser sees your lovely face,
and that is prize enough
when Summer turns to fall.
