i gather grass, golden dusted with pollen,
between my toes as i walk with spring
as it settles into my hometown along
with the bees. they buzz with confession –
a holy, humming honey-lust sound.
and farther out there’s a horizon
with dusk written in heat waves,
a lazy etching of red and orange pieces.
but the bees in the trees
notice only time and the changing of the seasons
and spare themselves the pictures of beauty.
hearing the casual phrase “the birds and the bees”
introduces more than a few questions for me.
i guess i understand human lust
like a bee’s fixation on honey.
and time, fleeting as it’s ever-chased for any.
i expected to compare fonder things than these.
you can’t see the queen.
she has a short lived romance
to satisfy a life’s long desire of needs.
if birds and bees explain our deeds,
are we to have ecstasy once
and live on without hope for another chance?
i can’t understand the comparison of birds and bees
to humans with more than fleshly, hurried necessities.
do limitless possibilities of human future
find their bounds in homing instinct?
night falls with another patchwork of colors,
and the grass weeps sympathy for over-simplicity,
a dewy texture to strip my toes of pollen gathered.
i am not a collector of gold dust and simple things,
but a thinker who wishes for more
than comparisons of birds and bees.