Dead Heading

Over my patio flower box a honey bee hovers,
He flits from bloom to bloom unsure of where to land,
Deciding which Marigold’s pollen pot is ripe to cover,
Before committing to briefly stand 
And then scoot along to find another.

A Monarch butterfly follows on erratic wings.
An inebriate in flight, she staggers this way... 
Then that, stumble-bumbling in and out, swings 
Wide as if to leave, before careening away
To lick a geranium, touching down on spindly legs.

A hummingbird decides the purple horn
Of a petunia would welcome his proboscis;
With wings ablur he drinks the nectar borne
Deep within the trumpet blossom, kisses 
It and in a blur departs.

To keep these airborne visitors at my gate
I water, feed and coddle the alluring bower
Which entices us to congregate,
Happy together until the flowers 
Turn dark and dry, 
And die.

To make room for newborn sprouts
I snip those blossoms old and spent
With shiny steel clippers;
It’s necessary no doubt...
Yet recalling past glories, a duty
I lament.

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