Now's the time of year for the bamboo to blossom
which of course means the season for the swarm
to reassert itself around every eave and screen door,
wings pitched to a frequency that drives the dogs
crazy, that sends the neighbor's children screaming.

Yet in those rustling stalks lies the whisper
of a mother hurrying through her list of chores;
in the hive's subliminal harmony, the ghost music
that used to shape her lips whenever she returned
the dishes to their places in the kitchen cupboard.

In a twilight which seems like forgetfulness
when the landscape loses its own contours
if you close your eyes, you'll see her once more
swinging the dull hot evening away on the porch
adjacent to that lively reproductive bamboo,

swinging and also sighing occasionally
over the complaint of the porch swing's chain,
peeling the cinder-red (or dare I say blood-red)
pomegranate resting on a dishtowel in her lap
as if this time of year specifically will last forever.