In the early light, their see-through dress wings
show against my shirt, their bodies
muted yellow, & I do not mind if they might harm me.
The mutual understanding here is simple: let me live. The small
non-exchange of a sting for the smack of a hand. The need
for the bee to have somewhere to burrow its body
is the same as my need to rejoice
in the ruby red of the flower. We live our own lives
in a breath, only to minimally address the rest.