Calling the Bees
Bees falling down like pebbles dropping,
from high, high hills. A voiceless apiary.
Colony Collapse Disorder
Apples grow like diseased bones
that I can pluck from the bough but dare not eat.
I am calling for the bees like they were bloodhounds
that ran away on the hunt.
Figures of cornstalks dancing, dancing, dancing with slender bodies
like the bonfire I built, a burial with nothing
to mark the grave and no words.
Only hoping to burn the wound away
and their hollow bodies, blown to the winds.
There are few calling for the last bees.
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