By: Dorie LaRue

It is spring and the blind beggar is separate
from the deluge of blossoms and those dazed
by soundless eloquent branches that celebrate

all those things which do not hesitate
to call forth the humanly amazed;
The bees fondle and assault and penetrate

the clutter of flowers, deliberate
as syringes and so intent as to be unphased,
by soundless eloquent branches that celebrate

rain and wind and growing things. They communicate
by silence and upward sway, and continually so raised,
the bees fondle and assault and penetrate.

The unblind’s fail of alms perpetuate
his dark, yet a million times over praise
the signs of green and growth they celebrate;

the beggar raises his new sign almost too late:
“It is spring and I am blind” into evening haze,
finally seen by those who celebrate
the bees fondle and assault to penetrate.