BEE'S SONG

Everyday magic is upon us now.

A simple chair by a simple bush,

soaking in a cacophony of pollen rapture.

A common hedge of blooming laurel

turns into whizzing contrails of sensual vibration.

The bee’s song translated in the earth’s tongue

as one great tuning fork.

A rising swell so insistent

that its passionate quivering

physically presses against my skin,

persuades me against my distractions

to look up and find

bumble bee, honey bee, mason bee, sweat bee

all in agreement,

their electrical pulse a cry of aliveness.

They remind me that the world is full of signals

we can’t hear, we don’t perceive,

oblivious to the vast vibrational matrix

that the rest of the living world shares.

What a myoptic lot we are.

An urgency is upon them,

some internal clock ticking down

the brevity of their mission.

Rear saddlebags overflowing with yellow,

I can’t imagine that they will not keep this

pace eternally.

And where will all of their little bodies go?

Why do we not spot them among the dead leaves and tree debris?

Where do they hide in their final resting place,

humble dried husks, orange and black?

All duty finally done,

resting their purring wings at last.