Puddytat tiptoes through the rising mint,
Secretive as a sapper, stalking bees
She does not want. How fey of her. Such twee
Impulses we impute. Perhaps she likes
The same sack Puck smelled. Maybe she is roused
By stingers in her stomach. Nothing sweet
Is likely to be true, the clerisy
Informs itself from Deuteronomy
To Darwin. She is twisting in the sun,
Trying to warm both sides at once and failing
Elegantly, fur laid across the lawn,
A preyer’s shawl, a boa on the grass.
There’s honey in the earth. And someday more.