I come back
from my morning shower.
First bumblebee of the season
is navigating my room.  

He buzzes
unerringly out,
curving ponderously
along
the illuminated
mote pathway,
into history,
into spring.

I am typing this note,
buzzing a bit myself,
when, surprise,
I hear him
at the north sill.

He considers
my only flower,
magenta cyclamen,
fully open,
cross-petalled,
pistils and stamens
concealed.
Hmm.

He’s out again.

He’s back,
bypasses
the cyclamen.
Now he’s stirring
sunny dust
in the east
from the birdfeeder
within.

He’s out, he’s back, he’s out.  

He’s back,
gathering
more dust than pollen,
seems to navigate
by way of the cyclamen.

He’s out. He’s back.

There are no small pleasures.

Now
he’s considering
me.