from the bee wing to the soul
comes a thrum, at once low
and above the mind line, fine
and high, lime-bright
tingle of song, shimmer
on the lake of attention
breath of trees, yellow

from the pine arms to the sun
a cloud rolls: that’s my love
of a season, windborne
marked by fragrant groves 
who, in their own time ring out
fine and high, the cry of life.

Poems for the 17th and 18th will be posted later, together. Today’s image – Adrian Kirby on the mighty pixabay.com