Thursday, April 19, 2007


The Bees are Dying

They hang as jeweled ornaments on
branches with legs clenched in
tiny fists of unexpected cold.
The bees are dying.

I pluck a stem and cup it in my
shaking hands. As God did for man,
I breathe myself across him.
Life pulses anew.

His segments flex, legs uncurl.
I can not save him, I know this.
For as a bee-God, I am limited.
Only a magician.

Or perhaps my intrusion is more
Old Testament treachery. How has
this bee sinned to be judged to die
only to die again?

I make a bed in tall grass for him
in the hopes that the earth's womb
can preserve what I can not.
This too is fruitless.

The bees are dying. I see them
decorate this field, giving the gift
of beauty with their very lives.
For only their God to see.