For the Bees

This morning is telling me
to speak of the bees,
but what more besides their dwindling
can I say?

Only this: I have seen carpenters,
their bandsaw buzz
propelling their heads, tiny hammers,
against the white wood
of this house’s old eaves.

I have seen bumbles bumbling
through forsythia, dianthus,
wings beating to the rhythm of
no particular place to go.

One summer Sunday,
a colony of honey bees
wrapped itself, a bulky scarf,
around the strongest branch
of my backyard camellia.
The air thrummed
with the music of their living.

A beekeeper abandoned his brunch
but arrived too late: their mad whirring copter
of perpetual motion took off as quickly
as it had touched down. No space for stillness
in a whirligig world. Think
of what you were told as a child
when caught in the buzz 
of their meandering: stay still,
and nothing will hurt you. 
How long did it take you to learn
the unexpected lie in those words? 

Outside,
blossoms quiver with the weight
of work to do.

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