The Free Energy of the Sun
by
Radiance Angelina Petro

Eating cereal on the porch, I feel the soft wind
of the wings of the honeybee as it flies near my hand.

There is a moment when sound turns into light,
and we are swept along by guesses.
The free energy of the sun touches the horns on our spine.

Imagination’s laws don’t follow the will. Thinking
and doing are the same in the bee. Somehow birds
have geographical memory stored in their wind-filled bones.

Paul Valery said: “In the beginning was the fable.”
Montaigne said: “Grasp the present good, and rest there.”

The shelling of beans by my grandmother in the afternoon sun,
is built into my hands. The swinging of the hammer
my grandfather did for the railroad still rings in my arms.
The flowering barley is the remembrance of bread.
Who isn’t a bee traveling miles away on missions of light,
searching through thousands of flowers, looking for nectar
for the good of us all?