It’s Only the Wind
Where I ‘ve walked or now ride
a rusty Schwinn, hundreds of bees
mob a ceiba tree’s January blossoms.
In the Yucatan, some believe the tree
is sacred, a berth where the dead find passage
between the heavens and underworld.
A tree where bats wing their way through leafless
branches, swoop and rise with impossible
speed, voracious, swallowing moths throughout the night.
Bees and bats can frighten
a passerby. My hands might cover
my head, or if I walk slowly, possibility hosts
what is eerie—an unlit street,
a missed step, seeing myself
wrapped within a cape of darkness.
I seek safe crossing,
to be steady on my feet, to feel for the heavens
in the company of wings, while still standing.