The Bees and Me

I used to envy the bees.

Until I watched their tiny wings

carrying so much responsibility.

Their heavy bodies barely kept aloft

as they fulfill their life purpose, dutifully

like miniature striped soldiers

with pollen on their knees.

Maybe the bees are sad

To carry so much

as they watch the world implode.

Maybe all they want is freedom

and to watch the flowers grow.

And if they close their eyes

can they feel the flowers die,

despite their efforts, wondering,

how is this a life?

And even now,

as they forge ahead,

just trying to live life,

they notice it’s all changing

and it’s adding to their strife

all they ever asked for was flower

but now the seed won’t even sprout

and now I wonder if the bees,

like me, are getting ready to shout.

I feel it all around me,

I smell it when I close my eyes.

A cyclical death, like morning breath

and the stink of rotten minds.

They chew us up and spit us out

and pick us from their teeth.

Only later they will figure out

it was us they needed to please.

So here I am, a lowly woman

identifying with the bees

wondering what it will take

to bring these men to their knees

And bees don’t care for politics

or reproductive rights

but just like many people,

they’ve been losing all their lives.

The bees are bees, and I am me

and still we bumble on.

Batting away the greasy hands,

with stingers out until we’re dead and gone

so feel the sting like bees can bring

As we fight for what is ours

I hope someday we all have the freedom

To just enjoy the flowers.