The bumblebee in the V stamped on the porcelain base

of the Hummel I took from my mother’s house hovers

over the letter’s cleft. My Hummel has no crown

and little color: a working boy in black coveralls, ladder

under one arm, tool bag over his shoulder. Right

after the war, my mother traded cigarettes for Hummels,

brought home to the States shelves of Maria Innocentia’s folk

statuettes. I only wanted the boy in black back when we

cleaned out the whole house. One of us yelled, Who wants

Hummels? One sister took the baby with bumblebees. One,

a girl in blue with a trumpet. We found gold coins and matured

war bonds in an old tool box in the cellar. We took sacksful

of sterling silverware with little scimitar butter knives.

It was hot that summer. The sun never really came out. It hung

in the sky with the early afternoon moon. Very little color anywhere.

Even the cusp-of-fall bees, exhausted, barely hummed.