Bumble Bee
The air is perfumed by fermented fruit,
From apples that lie bruised on dew kissed clovers.
They suck the juice from the flesh,
And the wine is intoxicating.
The producers become lazy fashionista’s,
Dressed in yellow and black fur coats.
Summer silence is peppered by their song,
The erratic buzz of wings;
They only desire lyrical honey now.
No longer working for sweetness,
They lay on beds of pollen.
They try to fly but only fall;
Weakened by their indulgence.
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