For the Wintered Bee

In my mind she rose from nightmare songs of the carnivorous

birds of spring; rather, it was the quickening sun of a newborn

faith.

She was a mad scout from a city asleep, testing the pane

between herself and a triumphant waggle over fragile white

blooms.

I pried the sash open to admit the bewildered Lazarus bee;

but the shamrock on the sill was neglected and root-bound

like me:  soon she'd find it yielded comfort less than her

enduring sleep.

How unkind I thought it must be to find so little of a past

in her post-resurrection world--no clover honey, no swarming

hive.

So for her I would bring yellows--vibrant daffodils--from beds

more reliable than my own; we would share droplets of honey

and sweet green tea; and in her gratitude, she could never ever

sting.

But she too was laden without a queen, and me, I was just a man,

a different kind:  soon she'd come undone by my failure to re-enact

her tribal dance.

It was only in her last second days that she found too much want

in an Australian shiraz, and perished into a bottle left carelessly

unfinished.

Oh, but didn't she live; wasn't she loved!  Surely none would tell me

it was all without a purpose.

(c)Allen M. Weber

published in Skipping Stones 2007

Mindworm Press, Chesapeake, VA