Kenneth Pobo

I’m no longer talking to bees.  

They don’t listen.  Actually, 

my buzz bores bees.  As a human, 

I’m cloudy with bad ideas 

and worse behaviors.  The bee says 

“I have a flower to dandle.  Go back 

to the porch and read your paper 

full of the vicious things 

you do to each other.”  I go.  

When a bee speaks, I listen.  

All animals do.  It’s not a fear 

of the sting.  Bees make sense,

pep up a blossom.  

A groundhog, who I admit I dislike, 

thinks a bee is a goddess or god.  

Who am I to say he’s wrong?  

Their wings carry Mt. Olympus,

no sagging.  

A new morning comes.  A bee 

drops it on our neighborhood.  

A sunflower opens for business.