"A Blue Uncertain Stumbling Buzz"

I sit in the garden and watch

The bees buzz from flower to flower.

I know them as angels, 

As little specks of yellow fuzz-and-stingers 

Carrying the magic pixie-dust 

Needed to keep the world alive. 

The bees are, in my mind, great alchemists 

Mixing different pollens

To create new fruits. 

I too am on an errand for my Father,

And a collection of cosmic space dust

Clings to my knees.

I bring Him pollen so that he might have 

What he needs. 

It is not uncommon for some of those fuzzy angels 

To stumble and falter at my feet. 

I watch the dying bees 

Labor and breathe

And flicker and fade. 

Always I wonder what was my role in this? 

Should I sit back and watch the scene unfold, 

All while doing nothing? '

Do the bees have a right to their own death? 

Did they own the suffering, the lameness, the asphyxiation?  

Or, since falling prostrate at my feet, 

Do they want the ultimate mercy? 

Perhaps there is no answer, 

But

I step on bees.

 

The design shapes us into what we will become, 

But faith allows such things.