A furry bumble bee scissors above the flowerbeds.
He skims, scurries, scrawls a fuzzy flight.
He bites through an inner flower-petal envelop,
Lured by the sun to lap nectar from a holed flower.
I see his wings vibrating like a fiddle string.
The April garden chills behind the high walls.
I see him next morning perched plump on a leaf.
When I stoop to look at him more closely,
He doesn’t move his frost-fastened hairy legs.
Frozen stiff before he could shiver warmth for flight,
Caught in the chill, he fell to the leaf lips of death.
In the evening, when the blaze of sun sinks, I sense
That the blast-furnace core of summer is heating up.
April waits for the cold to pass and summer to flourish.
But Icarus bee, 25 million years or more in the making,
Will never dance in fragrant sunlight warmth again.
I take no meaning from this - life is fickle.
No comments:
Post a Comment