Bees

Some worship the sun,
others the queen or
the blossom (the hedonists).

Some put their hope
in social order, drawing
the tangents of their faith

from the sun that lets
them come and go without
ever losing sight of the hive.

Some worship the Beekeeper,
though everyone agrees
that he is misguided.

The drones know something
about dying, but they remain
a cult, keeping to themselves.

The queen knows only birth,
her death catastrophic
until the faithful choose another.

They whisper pieties in her ear,
telling her she is immortal,
and will always be their queen,

until she flies out to meet
the drones, to bring back
life and death and everything

known about sunlight
and pollen and the honey
made in darkness.

Copyright © 2009 Cathryn Essinger All rights reserved
from Southern Poetry Review
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission