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If we were bees

we might be basking.

Pollen falling on everything

would be fantastic.

We’d gather it in our baskets

and bring it to the queen.

But all those golden pigments

are unintended allergens.

Little demons grinning

as they spew the dust

that leaves us dolorous

with crust

in the corners

of our eyes.

So we must arm ourselves

with handkerchiefs

and be grateful for the breeze

for as the spring emerges

so do the fucking trees.

Studio of Pietro Antonio Rotari (Verona 1707-1762 Saint Petersburg)

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