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Still Breathing

                                    Jo Brachman

Lately, I was afraid of not living
close enough to the seeded
circle of wildflowers,
but now, out the window
I see the verdant, purple
bergamot has jumped
the rock border
nearer the dogwood
where bees mumble
the hummingbird feeder.
Into the red, plastic flower
one bee squeezes, spins sugar
water, its wet, furry body
trembling up to a pocket
of breath, drunk and not knowing 
there is no escape from heaven.

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