Eastern Carpenter Bee · Old Carriage Trail

Whitehall Terrace

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by Sylvia Clark

Every year,
carpenter bees return
     to their woodwork,
expanding the cracks
     in the carport rafters,
like ice 
     to a stone,
like the pitted, filled cavities
     of the rough quilt cement entrance. 

But do the bees know wood
     from what we rely on?

Do they not have their own constructions?

Do they know beam
     from crucifix,
tree
     from church? 

Any good carpenter does.

But do they? 
In actuality,
every carpenter bee is holy,
as holy as honey,
as holy as the lion's skull,
the carports like the emaciated remains
     of a beast.

In this Rust Belt town,
carpenter bees are oxygen.

Truly,
within every pollination
lies the power
     for inspiration,

and
     with decay
     in every baby's breath,
we carve 
     into what was never ours
     to begin
     with,
what we call home.

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