You have always been a busy bee,
I heard my Auntie say,
under the Olive Tree one day.
She was a woman that never left
the square she made back in ’63.
A few acres is all she needed.
My Auntie lived life in a matchbox
tucked away in the plots she read
the worlds she created by pen
writings between floating walls
waves of unsettled thoughts.
An eccentric woman, a writer
dancing to her own beat
chained home by her mind.
I relate to her chains
except I’m trapped by my legs
and stopped by pain….
Mystery after mystery she wrote
poem after poem I write
They say I’m a lot like my Auntie
Both–busy bees…. of the mind.
care for a reading