Memorial Day
Among the close-cropped clovers
at my parents’ graves
(sweet clover
with the smallest of yellow flowers
red clover
with the dizzy red heads)
a small yellow foraging bee
the one we called a sweat bee
when I was a child
dabbles
at one flower
then another,
then searches my bare arm
so close
I feel the throbbing of her wings.
She thinks you’re sweet
my father would have told me.
He taught me not to flinch
when the sweat bee hovers near.
