and then he took the cup saying
a bee fell into my wine mug.
i went to take a drink and there he was set to drown.
i grabbed a twig, stuck it in and expert that he is, he climbed his way out along it and soon found himself in the grass.
and there he is.
wings soaked, legs red.
yellow and black head like a robot wiping of antennae over and over and over again.
i know how he feels.
my expectations of god went a little something like this.
too close to the intoxicating center, i lost my footing. i fell in and swam in dark red waters that stained every part.
but i can see his wings.
the wine has made the filigree pattern discernible and i look at the lace of god on a wine soaked bee.
i like it.
i suspect he’ll dry and fly off, albeit a bit cockeyed.
he might have a near miss or two when flying too fast near a tree or a rock.
i suppose that’s where i am still.
in the grasses, robotic and nearly forgetting that wet wings once dry will again search out what seems best, what seems good.
wiping my antennae, oblivious to the beauty offered to those close up, those who can see the handiwork of god when i’m soaked to the gills on the offered cup.