Worker Bee
Beth Peoch, May 2023
Writing poetry helps me make sense of an increasingly complicated world that is convulsing around multiple crises. I find solace in the natural world working my beehives, planting flowers and caring for birds, insects, hedgehogs and anything else that shows up on my doorstep here in rural Burgundy.
Worker bee
You must remember a worker bee is not eternal –
she will not fly forever, nor will she
harvest the sun always.
Your grief at such loss must not rise daily
but rather be tempered as the bees’ days, and yours,
are – measured by moon, star, rain.
As the bee transforms light and nectar
into honey you must seek to make your days
meaningful, worthwhile in a similar way.
The direction of travel
will take you up and out
over the wailing dog, the dying neighbor,
a small drying pond.
Feel accompanied by the breeze,
morning mist as it lifts
from warm earth. Gird your loins
fly over fields with deceitful
blossom, uncharted territory. Fly over the big city,
the rumble of discord
understanding
there is no justice out there, nothing is fair. Do not seek
perfection, it must come naturally
or it is not worthy.
Laden yourself with pollen of all colors,
yes even black,
poppies, dandelions, catkins
offer you their richness, so much
that you can almost not heave yourself into air,
your back legs heavy as barrels,
you rich as a fat man.
Enter the hive knowing one day
you will be pushed out
by the young, those whose soft white larva bodies
you once tended and fed.
They will carry your near lifeless body
out of the hive, nudge you into tall grass.
That life, was it purity, joy
abundance, a mixture of these?
Bare chill
of night air, your stilled wings
folded close about you.
You are not eternal.
