like a dynamo.
From its left-for-dead
branches,
from its perishing frame,
a white costume
worthy of a caliph
or a dancer,
has bloomed and settled.
Manoeuvring,
sedulous,
engrossed,
the bees
have proven yet again
to be
experts in the field.
They plug away
like tailors at a dress rehearsal.
The apple tree is humming
around my head,
a network fashioned
for mollification,
a crown of sound.
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