The Bees Explain
So long, sweet-toothed lords,
the honey was for the bears.
Unfazed by the turn of ardor to labor,
it was the harvest we couldn't abide,
that sag in the whorl of the iris,
the altered rank of field mice bones.
Thought about poisoning the hives
but knew just leaving
would be harder for you to reckon.
Read our parting buzz as applause
for your theories on genetic humdrum,
swarm collapse disorder,
cell-phone emissions and vampire mites.
You'll do fine with fewer cherries,
almonds and pears, find some
ticks to bite you at the picnic table,
still smell sage and clover in the hills
the Paiute used to ride.