As the tanks align, so do bees.
As I sit in my garden now, they conspire,
The honeyed hordes more enlightened
Than my race and I seem to be.
Beyond this semi-detached little Drive,
The warring crafts carry tension,
As these bees scour bushes
For surviving seed, the earth breathes.
Yet we don’t dare to. We close,
With the hunger for masks aping nature,
Like birds in the nest, we need info,
As the recently hatched lust for worms.
The bees at least seem informed,
While we receive ill timed information.
All holding death’s hand through flirtation
While seeking the peace and ease none confirm.
There will be in time in which light,
As graced as it is may oppose us,
Exposing all of our limitations
Under intense scrutiny.
We will have to fall in line for a while
With most of the harsher strictures of nature,
And let these bees try to heal us
As soldiers obstruct clemency.
The bees are reminders of course
Of freedom’s flight and our prison.
The world we have made and the systems
Are the shackles that sink human worth.
Re-evaluate what you are as you lease
The chains that define you. As those bees
Seek renewal the may still revive the lost earth.
We placed these binds and loss on ourselves.
But the great escape remains waiting,
As the bees stitch through sunlight,
May each seam leak restriction
And our captive clothes forsake dirt.
The hives are open. We’re shut in,
Naked as the day we were born:
Bless the dying. In sacrificing, they’re inking
And entirely fresh testament
That some other creature will write,
While the bees continue their working.
I envisage an evolved form in my garden
Or in the place where it stood, seeing sense.
And hearing perhaps in their sound
Our own distant echo. For man, too, is buzzing,
Scouring light for lost honey
And the kisses that time still suspends.
David Erdos March 22nd 2020 3pm