A weary bee
The August sun is rising high,
The lavender patch is brown and dry.
While cleaning near the pipal tree,
I found a gasping, weary bee.
Dim and grey his golden rings,
Far too slow to beat his wings.
His pollen baskets empty today,
Perhaps his hive is far away.
With love and care I picked him up,
And fed him sweet brown sugar syrup.
He quenched his thirst and stayed no more,
But wizzed through the air while I watched in awe.
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