It buzzes past,
then settles on a coneflower,
and as the flower sways,
your brain says bee.
Or perhaps you’re a bit
of an apiarist and, out
of all the thousands
of species of bees,
can identify this
particular one as a
honey bee—apis mellifera,
if you will.
Impressive, but I doubt
Abigail or Ambrose,
(the patron saints of beekeepers)
would have been much taken with
such high-blown appellations.
Nor would the bee,
who—as far as we know—has no
need to call itself anything at all,
but simply is what it is
and does what it does, without
the slightest regard for what any of
the rest of us might have to say.
-Howard Brown
Howard Brown is a writer who lives in Lookout Mountain, TN. His poetry has appeared in Burningword Literary Journal, Printed Words, Blue Collar Review, Tuck Magazine, The Beautiful Space, Pure Slush, Truth Serum, Poetry Super Highway, Old Hickory Review, Devil’s Party Press, Fleas on the Dog and Lone Stars Magazine. He has published short fiction in various print and online journals.
Lovely poem. A bee is what it is. Well said.