She is green in the sunlight
standing at the brink of her little home
little because she is little.
We are an odd direction life took
because life takes all odd directions
the little ground-dwelling bees,
they carried pollen when plum trees and apples
a direction odd to honeybees and bumblebees.
I have a chickadee in my plum tree;
plums by the grace
of the ground-dwelling bees:
those solitary little green sisters
who live with one another
in their tiny tunnels,
but aren’t of one mind.
They are independent thinkers,
the ground-dwelling bees.
I guess that’s why they could read the weather
and rise up to meet the plum blossoms early.
Later, all the bees gathered
in the herbs and roses—
all the bees
who had probably arrived by truck.
I have sympathy for those bees.
the honey bees;
they do hard work
and get paid lesser sugar.
I have sympathy for them
making a middle passage
chained in the dark,
hidden from the stars
and the the angle of the sun.
Do you remember that wreck of the bees
somewhere on the Interstate highways?
The horrific loss of life
hives spilled open
like a rural schoolbus wreck
or when the logging truck hit a herd of ponies.
The acceptable losses
escaping through the nets
left behind like ghosts
drowning in the traffic currents.