In their brisk little lives that disperse and return
over the sun-fed fields,
they hold something utterly unprovable,
call it our future, if you must.
The flushed months fill them with our hunger.
And they swarm from morning eaves,
possessed by a life that will kill them,
gathering up all the hours we let fall like undevoured fruit,
to return them, comb by comb, to precious sustenance.
But one by one the honeyed days come
and whisk them away in a deepening grip.
Still we doze through the torrid seasons of the grapes
in the absence of the honeybee’s lush song,
while their long sleep in the chrysalis of winter
slowly removes their essential wings from the earth,
sparing only the husks of our hoarded fevers.