November, forth

November, Forth
(11/4/2020, a few days past election day…)

Today dawned heavy with potential, as

if every year before awaited grim

and gravid and momentous. I awoke

to all four of them perched upon my chest.

I took their weight outside. I set it down

next to the beehive, and I told the bees

it all. About the people dying, shot

down cold for walking in their skin. I told

about the protests, and the virus, and

the warming- how little snow had fallen

as all the land beneath awaits, afire.

The bees hummed on. I then took up the years

to show them- look, I said, at all of these- 

how heavy they have weighed us. All this time.

The bees took little notice, buzzing on,

intent upon their hive. Finally then 

I told them of the ditch of yesterday 

with scattered azure feathers drifting free-

at least a fistful of them, and yet not

enough to recreate the bluebird. So

it goes, the bees hummed on. I turned toward

the years, but they were gone. I took a breath. 

Inside the hive, the worker bees rotate

each egg. The honey dark and sweeter grows.