The Last Bee

It was nearly 60 degrees On the 21st of January, On what should be One of the coldest and snowiest Days of winter In Michigan, But, instead, After a month of mud Unfreezing And snow Diminished To fog and rain, We ran around Outside Without Even a jacket, As did an actual Yellow Jacket That I saw Punching against My kitchen window, Its wings Erratically batting The smooth glass Like eyelashes From a surprised Resurrected. Oh, little honey bee, Woken upside down From your slumber, Tricked by a narrow road That is a tunnel, Risen like Christ On the wrong day With no way To correct the prophecies Of the Bible, Now disturbed From your meadow dreams Of the past summer, A return to sleep Is not possible. There are no flowers To suckle, No hive alive With vibrations and honey. You were drawn out by the lust of the Devil And the greed of its winged-capitalists. This is no place for you. I’m sorry You’ve been re-born, A mere reminder. I offer you The warmth and sweat Of my palm, Perhaps a comfort For as long as it can last. For what it’s worth, My little creature, It’s the last thing left for me to do, As well. It’s all either of us can do, Anymore.