Animation

The Seattle post . . .

Everywhere the Drunken Bees
by David Keith Johnson

Everywhere the drunken bees
Stumble among the young blossoms,
Tearing delicate victims,
Sucking vital moisture from their
Helpless lips,
Leaving but a few for time to ravage.

Youth hosts beauty as September petals
Host frost — sweet steaming ice
That wastes what it adorns,
That tempts fingers to touch,
Tongues to taste
Its instant dissolution.

The London riposte . . .

The Smell of Rain
by Kenneth Durham Smith

It is possible that while sleeping the hand
that sows the seeds of stars
started the ancient music going again
–Antonio Machado

The sun, sinking, sucks the clouds back in;
the hard streets give up their saved heat.
Now the wind runs in from the Bay,
past the Market clock, whose neon
hands reach for a new hour,
and bears through the choked streets
the tenuous scent of rain.

Someone, this moment, renews the world,
sees, suddenly, the beauty of small fields,
melts into the splendid monotony of waves.