Bees do have a smell, you know,
and if they don’t they should,
for their feet are dusted with
spices from a million flowers.
I could do that.
I could nuzzle into those blossoms,
bury my nose in that corolla,
rub my belly all over with that
I could live in that body
with the requisite pose,
with the honeybee’s reticent
never taking too much from any one blossom,
never quarreling with my fellow foragers,
keeping my pollen-sacs well-balanced,
eyes shined, antennae erect
I could master the dance steps–
I love to dance.
And I have no qualms about
humming the solar anthem
dawn to dusk,
praising the fire in my wings as the one
and only engine of pure transport.
Just don’t ask me
to enter the hive. I get anxious
even thinking of that buzzing horde,
packed together in angelic densities. Inside
I can’t tell which are the brood chambers
and which are the tombs, which is the honeycomb
and which are the catacombs.
To whom do I bow? Where do I spit?
What if the guard bees take me for an interloper?
And what will the queen do
if she catches me alone?
I’m not ready for that life.
Maybe I haven’t even figured out
how to be a human–
how to walk straight
try to keep my head out of the clouds.
~Honeybeeing by Charles Goodrich
Eat honey, my son, for it is good; honey from the comb is sweet to your taste. ~Proverbs 24:13 ✝
**Images via Pinterest and Pixabay