Near the granite steps to the beach, and close
to the lake, close
to a child building a wet castle, a dog
fetching a red ball,
a woman trying to read
a thick book lying on a red blanket, bees
are close to a man
coffee cup in hand, kneeling
to examine a large piece of driftwood.
No one this steel-cloud morning
aware yet of the bees, despite
the article in the newspaper, a quick
bite of warning on their phones,
a word from a neighbor,
a faint buzz in someone’s ear.
It is August and I’ve had enough
summer, enough bees.
I want autumn, then later winter, both
without bees in the sand,
in the grass, none
in the snow, sleet, greasy roads
that can lead anyone away,
away from a whisper, a few words
barely heard about bees, even
as given a balm to sooth a sting, even
as reading about ancient Greeks
in a wrinkled magazine where it claims
the Greeks did not write obituaries,
would only ask if while alive
the person had passion.
