I positioned my pointer finger
so the half-drowned honey bee in the bird bath
could climb astride the nail
and be lifted into summer sun,
where she might more quickly warm
and dry herself with shivers.
Three times she tried to fly,
rising an inch, only to come down
stumbling on the back of my hand.
The fourth time she rose to the level
of my eyes and hovered there,
then landed on my nose for a breather.
A dark ticklish dot that crossed my eyes,
she kissed with her honeyed proboscis
my noble schnozz in thanks,
or affection, possibly even love. Then she rose
and hovered there, at what looked to be
approximately the distance between
the famous Sistine fingertips, a space signifying
the gap between us—God
in Her glory and a just-awakened man.