You made this;
working with wood and mortar
to build nesting sites for native bees –
the leafcutter, the resin, the blue-banded.
For some you drilled holes to size to suit
their tiny forms,
for others experimented with mixtures
of sand and water
seeking the right consistency
to entice them to burrow.
And I think of you
labouring in that over-pollinated garden
constructing in your imagination
your own retreat – a cool, dank spot
smelling of eucalypt and petrichor –
where you could seal yourself up
with your unfertilised thoughts, and just
sleep away the mind’s dark winter.
