The Bee

The bee’s buzz is a beautiful sound,
To be cherished wherever it’s found,
But, though the bee wishes you no harm,
Some reflect on its drone with alarm.

I myself, always fearing a sting,
Just let the hyper-whine of a wing
Wash straight over me like Lorelei,
Caressing air as it hovers by.

No, a sting’s no deterrent at all
To being swept along in a bee’s thrall,
From trendy flower to little-known shrub
Or pint to pint outside of a pub.

Bees refrain from the conspicuous
Look of latex-lacquered, stilettoed wasps;
Their style’s modest, fuzzily modern,
Pollen provides an offbeat frisson.

They rebuff Creation’s symmetry:
Why would God have wax bleed from their knees?
And is it fair that their works produce
Such bountiful gifts for others’ use?

When summer ends, or gradually wanes,
Their loss is like an unnoticed pain –
But to be without them until spring,
Might as well be felt much like that sting.