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a literary journal published by the Black Earth Institute dedicated to re-forging the links between art and spirit, earth and society

Jan D. Rubin


After the Extinction, Describing Bees to My Great Nephews & Niece

after Juan Morales, Explaining Seafood to My Future Grandkids after the Extinction.

 

I’ll describe how bees used to arrive

out of hibernation when it was warm,

every summer, leave pollen on

every wildflower in the backyard

 

flying, buzzing, landing on yellow dandelions,

or pink clover and small white flowers

full of nectar, bright, dusty pollen on their legs,

they especially adored the purple lilac bush

 

I’ll explain how we used to get honey

from bees, how thick gold amber poured

from the bowl, how sweet the taste

of morning was with honey, toast and coffee

 

how bees lived in hives, ground holes or wood

all about honeycombs, where they store honey and pollen,

I’ll explain how important the queen bee was

and how all the workers served her

 

I’ll explain how the western honey bee

pollinated wild plants all over the world,

how global crops depend on pollination

on every continent, except the frozen South pole.


January, Winter Storm

Morning evocation, reciting the sutra

out the window, laurel bush, two sparrows

flit from a snow laden branch to a smaller twig

appear and are gone, a bluebird arrives big, bold.

 

The snow begins to fall again. Snowed in

since Monday, sixteen inches over three days.

Our street snowbound, down the block the Ford truck

in Ferguson’s driveway sits dormant.

 

Yesterday I called McCarty, he lives directly

across the street, his power is still on.

My heat, lights out since yesterday morning

wrapped up like a gold miner in the Yukon, hands, feet like icicles.

 

McCarty brings boiling water in a thermos

he’s out of coffee, I hand him a package of Seattle’s Best

from my now defrosted refrigerator. We commiserate,

decide being neighbors is a good thing without saying so.

 

I make myself a cup of coffee, heaven for the moment,

my hands warming around the cup, warmth in my chest,

fortified I call the electric company again

gentle in my request, the linemen are working hard.

 

Ask if the linemen work after dark

the operator says yes, they use a floodlight,

another freezing couple of hours

reading, meditating, hoping.

 

Suddenly my baseboard heater begins to ping,

the light sitting on my study desk comes on

Summer sunlight in the middle of winter,

light floods the room like August.

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Jan D. Rubin is a counselor and educator. Her poems have appeared in Third Wednesday, San Pedro River Review, The Timberline Review, and Glass: A Journal of Poetry, among others. Nominated for the Pushcart Prize, she was a finalist for the Blue Light Press Book Award in 2018. She’s the author of Tin Coyote (Blue Light Press, 2018) and Crossing the Burnside Bridge & Other Poems (Cirque Press, 2023).


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