The bee knows where to find pollens;
the spider, how to span a chasm—
driven, in the blood.
The stream follows the slope,
the way to the sea
in rustling meander,
gathering moss, throwing gloss.
The sun, none can block
his way, or slow his course
till decked with a garland
of golden rose.
It’s in the blood,
in a genetic transmutation
wrought by the ageless hand
floating moon and winking eyes.
The sun cuts a highway in a jungle,
drills light in pitch darkness;
he sucks honey from rock,
draws the ire of fleas in the lea.
Cry against the scotching heat,
but embrace his warmth less
winter whines when summer
flees for lack of spring.
© 2017 Celestine Ikwuamaesi