Apidea
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.
Joni
4/19/07