Rescue

I found the bee
exhausted with days
flung at windows
in the closed room.
It seemed the windowsill
was its last resting place.
One claw?like leg
extended without hope,
it watched me
watching it.
I saw its panting fear,
eyes glittering
pinpricks in black fur.
Could a bee hope?
I offered
a scrap of paper.
Could this be worse than dying
on unyielding paint?
It dared.
And, planted on soft earth
in a window box,
it had not breath
or confidence
to unfurl fulvous wings.
It climbed a mountain
of turned earth
and rested.
I planted a flower.
The bee had flown.

Sylvia Goodman